


The Somnambulist

by x_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, supernatural season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-22 18:10:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 69,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21080879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: He hadn’t even been able to admit it to himself, what he was expecting. Not marriage, of course. No vows, no papers to sign and a party after. Just everything else—wide-eyed commitment and a declaration of intent they both believed in and stayed true to.In other words, marriage.





	The Somnambulist

**Author's Note:**

> The Supernatural episodes referenced are from 'Girls, Girls, Girls,' to 'Brother's Keeper.'

* * *

The Somnambulist

The Somnambulist

*** *** ***

Now.

Later, Dean would look back and examine the days and weeks preceding the events that changed his life. Only then would he recognize the patterns hidden in the fractures carved by grief, stress, and their general fucked up life. He’d think to himself, _‘It was right there the whole time’ _and _‘I should have done something,’_ and, _‘Why didn’t I?’_

But that was later, after the world had shifted on its axis and the pieces of himself—his soul, his mind, hell, even his body—had scattered and reformed. After he’d discovered that he wanted more from life than the blackened world his parents had handed him, no questions asked.

And yeah, no use crying about it all, but still…

Still, he had wanted that more, wanted that different. He’d even confessed it to that priest, the one that worked with the hot nun: ‘_…there’s things, there’s people, feelings that I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time…’_

But that wasn’t right, either, because he _had _had it. For a sweet, brief time he’d had his heart’s desire and he gazed down at Sam, kneeling at his feet. Sam’s jaw and cheek were bruised and his eyes were red-rimmed. The old, creased photos were on the sticky cantina floor where Sam had carefully placed them.

Even now at the end of all things, Sam was what he wanted. Sam was the different experience, the first time, the only time.

But it didn’t really matter. There was no other way. Charlie, Kevin, Rudy… All the people he’d let down, all the people that _Sam _had let down deserved so much better and it looked like Metatron had been right—it was always gonna end this way.

So, Dean swallowed and pushed away the past and present, pushed away the things he couldn’t have, silently asking Sam’s forgiveness. And then he tightened his grip on Death’s scythe, took a breath, and swung.

*** *** ***

Then.

Sam shut the bunker door. The tumblers click into place as the locks magically reset and resealed. “You hungry?”

Already halfway down the stairs, Dean paused and looked back. “I could eat.”

“We’ve got that pizza from the other night.” There was a scattering of melting snow on Dean’s shoulders. There was also a smear of blood on his chin and what looked like a blob of flesh on the tip of his ear. “And a can of tomato soup.”

“You mean the _bisque_.” Dean grinned. “I’ll take the pizza; you can have the bisque.” He started down the stairs again.

For some reason Dean didn’t think a bisque counted as real soup. Sam had explained what it was, that it was just soup, but Dean hadn’t bought it and Sam had grown tired of arguing about it. “Whatever. As long as you shower before we eat.”

Dean brushed his cheek. “Like I’m not gonna? You better, too. My stomach’s turning just looking at you.”

Sam touched his own cheek. When he’d taken Frank the Ghoul’s head, he’d dived to the side but hadn’t been able to miss the fountain of bright arterial spray. “Since you were the one that did most of the chopping, I doubt your stomach’s that fragile.”

Dean grunted in answer.

They parted at the bottom of the basement stairs, Sam to the right, Dean to the left.

***

Sam examined his face in the mirror, tipping his head this way and that. It was a good thing ghoul blood wasn’t infectious because it was everywhere—on his forehead and hair and in his ears, painting his skin a nasty shade of flaky red. Gross. And a good thing they hadn’t stopped for a post-hunt beer in Phillipsburg like Dean had wanted.

Imagining the shock on the bar’s patrons, Sam stripped, sloughing off his stinky, blood-stiff shirt and t-shirt. His jeans and shorts had gotten doused, too. He tossed them all in a pile, opened the door and leaned out. “Hey?” he shouted.

“Yeah?” Dean shouted back, his voice echoing on the hard tile walls.

“Are you gonna do laundry?”

“Yeah!”

“Can you do mine, too?”

“Yeah, but you gotta dry them. And don’t use that softening crap!”

“They’re dryer sheets, dude! They’re not gonna poison you!”

There was no reply. Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed a towel and padded to his wing’s shower room. He shucked off his shorts and stepped into the stall. When the water hit his chest, he sighed. It felt so good, washing off the muck and sweat with water just hot enough. Built for a small army, the bunker had a huge water tank and a matching, many-armed heater. The week they’d first moved in, Dean had tested Sam’s shower room, standing in a stall for twenty minutes, shouting the temperature’s progress until Sam had pounded on the door and told him to stop wasting water.

_Wasting water_, Sam mused as he scrubbed his scalp clean. Ever since he could remember, they’d had to be careful of resources: food, money, extra clothes—any of it could be gone in an instant if Dad came back late or didn’t come back at all.

There was one year—Sam was fairly certain it had been the time Dad had shuffled them back and forth between Colorado and Wyoming—when he’d had to leave three different pairs of brand new tennis shoes in three different motels. Dad had run up against the law and it had been: _‘They’re here, boys. Dean, get the guns; Sam, get the food.’_

Funny. Sam had missed those shoes so much, especially the Cons, pair number three. Angry for days after, it had felt like he had left bits of his own self, a breadcrumb trail he was never gonna be able to retrace. That third time it happened, Dean had gone out and stolen some new Cons for him, blue instead of red.

Sam was in his late teens when he’d understood that the shoes hadn’t been the issue. The shoes hadn’t been the issue at all and if it hadn’t been for Dean…

Sam smiled and shampooed his hair a second time, just because.

***

The washer was spinning down when he got to the laundry room. He pulled the damp fabric apart, checking his shirt. He couldn’t find any blood which was a minor miracle. He threw the tangled bundle of clothes in the dryer and started it up. The drum began to roll with a thump and a whine; Sam watched it for a moment and then went upstairs.

He found Dean in the kitchen, hunched over a plate of pizza and the laptop. “Hey?”

“Hm?” Dean said, tapping a key.

“If we’re gonna stay here, we should get a new washer and dryer.”

Dean looked up. “‘_If _we’re staying?’ You going somewhere?”

Soup suddenly didn’t sound so good and Sam got a beer from the fridge. “You know what I mean.” He sat down across from Dean and peered into the pizza box. There were two slices left.

“No way,” Dean said, tugging the box to his side of the table. “You said you wanted bisque.”

“I want anything that doesn’t take effort and…” Quick as a snake, Sam grabbed a slice off Dean’s plate. Ignoring Dean’s indignant, _“Hey!”_ he took a bite and grinned. “We need to go to the store.”

Dean moved the box further away. “Again? We went three days ago.”

“We went two weeks ago and only got a few things because—and I quote—_‘If that lady at the register asks me one more time if I went to school with her daughter, I’m gonna do something you’ll regret.’_” Sam grinned at the memory. “She was just trying to set you up. For all you know, her daughter is a knock-out.”

“If she’s such a knock-out, why’s her mom trying to get rid of her?” Dean asked with a raised _Sammy, get real _eyebrow.

He finished his pizza and brushed off his hands. “I’m not saying she is or isn’t—maybe the lady just likes you and wants to talk? Maybe her daughter lives in a no-cute-guy zone and you’re her best option. Maybe she hates her daughter and wants to ruin her life forever.”

Mouth open, Dean was about to speak when he did a double take. “Hey!”

“Anyway,” Sam said with another wide grin because it was nice, scoring that point. “Those washing machines are on their last legs and only one dryer works. We wouldn’t have to replace everything—one of those new energy efficient washers would be enough.”

“Those are expensive, Sam. Can we afford it?”

“We still have a balance left on that gift card you gave yourself and that Barclay card. Both should be enough if we don’t splurge.”

“All right, but how’re we gonna get it here ‘cause if you’re thinking of strapping it anywhere on Baby, you can forget that right now.”

Sam stretched his legs out. “We can rent a truck or pay for delivery.”

“You want them to deliver it to the bat cave? No way.”

He hadn’t thought about that… “Maybe we can ask Donnie at the bar. Tell him we don’t have a place to drop it off. He’ll do it.”

“Maybe.”

Sam was still hungry which meant a trip to the burger joint in Smith Center or the soup. “We can make a day of it. Go down to Salina and get groceries and go to Lowe’s. I want to get some tape for that leaky pipe.” Dean’s expression had changed to his, _‘No fucking way, that’s too far from home,’_ so Sam sweetened the pot: “We’ll have time to stop by Autozone or the theater. I bet_ Guardians of the Galaxy _is still playing.”

Whether it was the draw of car parts or Zoe Saldana, Dean’s expression lightened. “All right, but don’t expect me to help you pick out a washer.”

Sam stretched again and then stood up. “As long as you help with the groceries, I don’t care.” He went to the cupboards and got the soup. “And I want to go with you to Autozone—we need new wiper blades.” There was no reply and he turned. Dean was staring at the laptop. “Hey?”

Dean blinked and then gave Sam a lightning quick smile. “I don’t care, as long as you pick out the washer.”

There was no reason for it, the odd chill that skated across Sam’s neck. Other than the repeated words, Dean’s tone and expression were normal—no black eyes, no mean smile. “Yeah, okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.”

***

Sam and Dean left at dawn the next day. The ride south was uneventful. A statie tailed them for a few miles until he or she got bored and turned off near Beloit.

They stopped for breakfast at a diner outside of Salina. One quick meal later, they were back on the road. Citing melted butter and spoiled meat, Sam suggested they leave the groceries for last. Dean shrugged and said it was too early for auto parts because the store didn’t open until ten. Sam countered with, _‘Lowes is open.’_ Dean said he was staying in the car ‘cause there was no way he was gonna shop for a major appliance at nine in the morning. Sam said sure thing, adding, _‘don’t be surprised if I buy a pink washer’_ because he knew what Dean’s reaction would be.

Sure enough, after parking in the mostly-empty lot, Dean followed Sam inside, stomping to make sure Sam knew how unhappy he was.

Once they stepped through the doors, however, Dean grabbed a cart and began filling it with supplies, assuring Sam that the prices were better than any grocery store. Not certain but happy to go along, Sam left him to it and went to appliance land.

Though none were pink, the choices were surprisingly varied and he stood in front of the long line of washers and dryers, wondering which one was better. He should have done some research.

“Can I help you?”

Sam turned. Behind him was a woman about his age wearing a blue vest and a nametag. “Hello…” He glanced down. “Sandi.” She’d scribbled out the ‘y’ and written in an ‘i’ in aqua colored ink. “Yeah, probably.”

She made a little moué. “There are a lot, aren’t there?”

He went to a washer and opened the door. It was one of those front-loading kinds and it didn’t seem practical, bending so low to pick up an armful of heavy laundry. “I thought it would be a choice between a white version and yellow version.”

Sandi laughed, a light, airy sound that made Sam smile. “You’re thinking of washers from the eighties, aren’t you? That is so adorable.” She stepped closer. “So you’ve never bought a washer and dryer before?”

He didn’t miss her quick glance at his left hand. “I never had to.”

“And now you have to.”

“Something like that.” A clatter of metal drew his attention. Dean had come around the corner of the long aisle and was pushing the cart that was now full of merchandise.

Dean saw them but stopped by the vacuum cleaner section. He picked up the display model and even from the distance, Sam could see he was surprised by the weight.

Sandi had followed his gaze. “Is he with you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Dean turned the vacuum upside down and was trying to pry the base off.

“That’s sweet.”

Distracted, Sam pressed his lips together. If Dean broke that floor model, it was going to come out of _his_ pocket. “What’s sweet?”

“That you two shop together. My boyfriend won’t step foot inside a store with me.”

All attention now on Sandi, Sam wasn’t really surprised; it had happened so often he no longer protested too strenuously. But he made an effort, saying, “Yeah, he’s not—”

“I mean,” Sandi said, putting her hands on her hips. “We’re engaged. It’s not like I’m never not gonna want him to _not_ go shopping with me, you know?”

Sorting out the double negatives, Sam tried again, “Yeah I know, but—”

“What’s he doing now?”

Sam looked over. Dean was still holding the vacuum but he was staring down at it with a vacant expression. “I don’t know, but Sandi, we’re not—”

“It must be really hard for you guys out here in podunk America. At least we’re not Wyoming.”

Sam drew a deep breath, still intending to nip Sandi’s mistake in the bud he was interrupted again, this time by Dean. With a loud, “Sammy!” Dean held up the vacuum cleaner and pointed to it with a wide grin.

“See?” Sandi’s eyes were practically sparkling. “_So _sweet. You are _so _lucky.”

Unable to do anything else, Sam smiled weakly as Dean got a boxed vacuum off the shelf and balanced it on top of the other stuff. “Yeah, I’m lucky all right.”

***

They ended up buying a middle of the road washer and dryer, a pair that wouldn’t break the bank but would last a couple years. The arrangements for the delivery took a while and it was almost eleven by the time they left the store.

“Two hours,” Dean complained as he pushed the cart to the Impala. “Two _hours._ That is why I hate shopping.”

Staring down at the receipt, Sam muttered, “Yeah, it’s bad.”

“Car parts or lunch?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Car parts it is.”

“Okay.”

Dean sighed. “It’s not that much, Sam.”

Sam waved the receipt. “It’s over a thousand dollars. Did you really need a new vacuum?”

Dean patted the box. “We can use this bad boy for the house and for Baby. We’re keeping it.”

“Yeah, bu—”

Dean bumped Sam’s shoulder with his own. “You worry too much. It’s not like we’re really paying for it. I’ll get us a new card next week or go into Wichita and hustle up some cash.”

Sam edged around a poorly parked SUV that apparently doubled as a tank. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“She thought I was your honey, didn’t she?”

They’d arrived at the car and Sam couldn’t help the half grin as Dean unlocked the car and began loading the bags into the back. “Yeah, but I don’t care about that.” And he didn’t—Dean always bristled but Sam had gotten used to the questions and assumptions. “And anyway, you were the one who didn’t want to spend the money, remember?”

Dean pushed one of the bags aside to make room for the vacuum. “Yeah, but that was kind of fun.” He closed the door. “Would it make you feel better if we skipped the car store?”

Sam looked down at the receipt again, at the long list of household items that totaled one thousand, nineteen dollars and fifty-seven cents. “No, you’re right, it’s not a big deal.” He stuffed the receipt in his pocket and hid a grin. “But you’re the one that has carry all this crap into the bunker.”

“Oh, come on!”

***

Like dominoes, their plan fell apart quickly and they didn’t eat lunch until two, which in turn made them miss the afternoon showing of _Guardians of the Galaxy. _Sam suggested they forget the movie and Dean muttered, ‘sure.’ But he’d said ‘sure,’ in that way that didn’t mean ‘sure,’ so Sam took another bite of salad and said they might as well eat slow because they had a couple hours to kill.

Dean smiled and asked the waitress for another beer.

***

The theater was half empty and they had their choice of seats. After hemming and hawing, Dean led Sam to what he said was the geographical center and took a seat.

Dean had already seen the movie but Sam hadn’t and as the lights dimmed and the previews began, Dean ate popcorn and gave Sam a synopsis of what to expect, advising that he should, _‘forget all the other Marvel movies because…’_

Sam only half listened, more focused on the uncomfortable seat and the lack of legroom. There was no place to stretch out and the seats weren’t very wide. He always thought of Dean as small until they sat next together and he was reminded how wide Dean’s shoulders were. He’d move one seat over but Dean would be insulted and ask if he had cooties, so he just scrunched down and tried to concentrate.

The last time he’d gone to a movie it had been with Amelia and that had been to see _Les Misérables_. Amelia had loved it but Sam hadn’t been able to relax. For some reason he got the idea that there was a vampire in the audience. He’d sat there, surrounded by strangers, tense and nervous, waiting for the screams and panic that was sure to come. Nothing happened, of course. A few weeks later when Amelia had suggested they see _Lincoln_, Sam had made up some excuse that must have been patently false because Amelia never asked again. Soon after, he’d gotten word that Dean was alive and that, as they said, was that.

“You okay?”

Sam turned. Dean had stopped his spiel and was watching him, his eyes shining silver in the low light. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Dean tipped the popcorn towards Sam. “Good.”

***

The movie was interesting and Sam got caught up in the plot only to fall asleep near the end. He woke from a sharp elbow and Dean’s sharper,_ “Dude.”_

Sam straightened up. He’d somehow fallen asleep against Dean’s shoulder. The credits were still rolling but the rest of the audience was gone. “You should have woken me up sooner.”

Dean stretched and then stood up. “Why? You were tired.”

“I— Yeah, okay, but…” He combed back his hair and trailed off, not sure what his next objection was going to be.

“It’ll be on DVD soon. You can see it then. I’ll buy it for you for Christmas.”

“All right.” Sam got to his feet. “What happened at the end?”

“Like I’m gonna spoil the big surprise.” Before Sam could respond, Dean added, “I was thinking: Food King is closing in ten minutes. We should find a motel, then get the groceries in the morning.”

“You sure?” Ever since they had moved into the bunker, Dean had turned into a homebody—he’d drive all night if it meant being able to sleep in his own bed.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

***

The rest of the evening was uneventful. They picked up dinner, then found a motel that didn’t look too respectable and checked in under the name of Harrison Hamil and Mark Ford. Dean grinned when Sam elbowed him in rebuke, but the clerk didn’t notice anything.

Sam examined the room while Dean locked and bolted the door. They went to bed a couple hours later. Sam dropped off first, leaving Dean poring over the news reports, searching for any sign of bad things going badder.

***

Sam woke up in the early hours, sure he’d heard someone calling his name. He listened for a moment, breath still, finally deciding it had been a dream. He turned on his side. Dean was on the other bed, curled around his closed laptop. Thinking of the joke he was gonna make in the morning: _‘Dude, I know you’re hard up, but can you not spoon your electronics in front of me?’_ Sam leaned across the distance that separated their beds and carefully tugged the laptop free. He placed in on the nightstand and went back to sleep.

***

When Sam woke up again, bright morning sun warmed his face. He scrubbed his eyes and hair, and then opened his eyes. Dean was in the middle of the room, arms slack at his sides. “Dean?”

Dean didn’t move, didn’t reply.

Sam sat up. Dean was facing the beds but his gaze was blank. “Hey?”

This time Dean responded. He blinked and sort of straightened up and then touched the Mark. He smiled a smile as bright as the morning. “‘Bout time. I was gonna hit the store without you and then I remembered how pissed you’d be if I forgot your favorite kind of tea.”

“Are you all right?”

Dean frowned quizzically and went to the bathroom. “Of course I am,” he called out from the half-closed door. “But if you don’t do something about that hair, you’re not going anywhere with me. I have a reputation to maintain, you know.”

Sam stayed there, head tipped, trying to categorize what he’d just seen. Finally, he mumbled, “Okay,” because there was nothing else to say.

***

Again, they spent too much time and too much money at the grocery store. Dean complained about both while going down every aisle and making running comments about this product or that. Sam finally had to drag him away from the condiment section, saying that, yes, Thanksgiving was coming up but even _their _shelves couldn’t hold that much ketchup and mustard.

With the purchases from the day before, there wasn’t enough room in the back seat to fit all the groceries and Sam had to put a couple bags at his feet. He spent the ride home trying not to kick the soup and fruit, arguing the whole while with Dean whether stuffing with cranberries was disgusting or not.

____________________________

“He say where he’s going?” Sam asked as Cole drove away.

“Home.”

“Rowena?”

Dean shrugged. “In the wind.”

It was a whole new can of magical worms they’d now have to deal with but for the moment, Sam didn’t care. “What you said earlier back there…” What words to use so he wouldn’t piss Dean off? “About being past saving. Were you real—”

“I was just telling the guy what he needed to hear.”

Sam nodded even though he didn’t really believe Dean.

After a moment, Dean muttered, “We better go.”

They walked down the alley, Dean in front, Sam trailing. The alley smelled of piss and trash and wet concrete, a trio of scents that Sam only partially acknowledged because it had been a shock, the darkness that Dean had exposed as he’d tried to convince Cole not to pull the trigger. Apparently a darkness that Dean had lied about. But was that lie itself a lie? Had Dean just lied to _him_?

It made Sam ill to think of it because he was fairly certain it was the latter and when they got to the car and settled in, he had to clamp his jaw shut against the questions he’d been throttling back for weeks. The, _‘Are you suicidal?’_ and, _‘Is it the Mark or is the demon still inside you?’ _and, _‘What is _wrong _with you?’_

“Hey?”

Sam scrubbed his hand over his mouth as if that would help. “Yeah?”

Dean reached in his pocket and got out his cell. He gave it to Sam. “Can you delete that thing for me?”

It took a moment for Sam to get it. “You mean the dating app?”

Dean shrugged, this time in obvious embarrassment. “Yeah, it’s gotta go.” He gave Sam a quick side smile. “I mean, if it’s only gonna hook me up with demons, I can do that on my own.” He looked in the rearview mirror, adding in a rough mutter, “Don’t need any help with that.”

Feeling an unaccountable sadness, Sam hesitated. “Are you sure? There’s probably a way to filter out the crazies.”

“I’m sure, Sam. Do it.”

“What about another service? Everyone uses Tinder.”

Dean snorted. “How would you know?”

“Because I read, Dean. I know which apps are popular.”

Dean glanced at Sam again. They were passing a brightly lit gas station and a bar of white arced across Dean’s face. “You got anything like that? Like Tinder?”

Sam frowned. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Dean touched his sleeve right over the spot where the Mark was. “No reason.”

The cell cupped in his hand, Sam studied Dean. Just as he knew when Dean was lying, he knew when Dean was embarrassed or confused or afraid. Hell, he knew what Dean looked like when he was attracted to a pretty girl, lowered eyelids and all. But this was something different, this was something new. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam cleared his throat and then turned his attention back to the cell. Quickly, he deleted the app and set the cell on the seat between them. “No reason. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” Dean turned the corner, heading for the interstate. “You?”

“No.”

____________________________

Over the next couple weeks, monsters kept them busy and they got a chance to try out their new washer and dryer.

“Man, look at this,” Dean said, coming up the stairs, his arms full of folded clothes. “All that blood on your collar is completely gone.” He dropped the pile on the library table where Sam was working and put his hands on his hips. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

Sam closed the book—_Mystical Tattoos and Their Origins—_and peered at the clothes. “I’ve been waiting for those words all my life and it’s because of a new stain remover? Seriously?”

Putting on a show of false outrage, Dean scooped up the clothes and headed back downstairs. “Don’t even with me, Sammy. Not today.”

“When did you turn into a twelve-year old girl?” Sam called to Dean’s retreating back. “And don’t touch my drawers again! I like everything arranged by pattern!”

Dean said something too muffled for Sam to hear and Sam shook his head. The last time Dean had put the laundry away, Sam had found that his clothes had been rearranged by color. It had been sort of funny, not that he’d ever tell Dean that.

“And now for you,” he muttered under his breath as he pulled a slim volume off his ever-diminishing stack of ‘get-the-Mark-off-Dean-research-books.’ He’d discovered it on one of the shelves in the basement, tucked between four books on transcendental magic and a book on card tricks. The shelf had been labeled _Useless But Interesting_, something that still made Sam grin. Most people, if they ever got a look at the bunker’s library, would think the books were useless and maybe not even interesting.

Titled _My Epic Journey by Albertus Magnus_, the book detailed the discovery of a massive tomb from the Badarian Period. Sam knew nothing about the Badarian Period but in the preface, the author wrote that the era was categorized by unremarkable, typical graves which made his find of a tomb covered with elaborate illustrations all that more astounding.

“What’ve you got there?”

Sam looked up. Dean had returned with a bag of pretzels and a beer. “Isn’t it a little early?” he said, nodding to the beer.

“Sam…” Dean sat down. “I can drink, and I can drink and read.” He opened the bottle with a grin and a flourish. “But I can’t just read, not if I want to stay sane. Besides, it’s almost ten-thirty.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and looked at his watch.

“Yep,” Dean confirmed. “Time flies when you’re bored out of your mind, don’t it?” Before Sam could reply, Dean nodded to the book. “What’s that one?”

“A book by Albertus Magnus.”

Dean pursed his lips. “That jerk.”

“I don’t think it’s the same guy,” Sam said absently. This Magnus had copied the tomb’s walls and bound the illustrations in the center of the book. A few of the symbols resembled the Mark but Sam wasn’t gonna get his hopes up—a lot of ancient symbols resembled the Mark. “This was written in the eighteen hundreds.”

“Well, eighteen hundreds Magnus was probably a jerk, too.”

Sam bent his head to read. “Yeah, probably.”

***

It turned out that eighteen hundreds Magnus _was _a jerk. A vainglorious, pompous jerk whose incompetence had led to the death of a dozen workers and the destruction of the tomb itself. His conclusions were equally incompetent, based mostly on the assistance of a French spiritualist by the name of Madam Le Roux.

“No good?” Dean asked.

“Hm?” Sam replied, coming up for air. Dean had moved to the chair by the bookcases; his computer was on his lap. “Oh, yeah.” He closed the book. “The guy was a jerk with a capital J.”

“Probably why he used the fake name.”

“Probably.” Sam picked up his laptop. “I’m gonna make lunch; you want anything?”

“If it’s a salad, no, if it’s a cheese sandwich, yes.”

“In other words, if I don’t want to go through the trouble of making you lunch, all I have to do is saying I’m having a salad?” Sam stood up.

“I’ve got a nose, Sam. If I smell cooked cheese and you don’t bring me a sandwich, you’re making dinner for the next week.”

Sam faked a shiver. His meals tended to be the quick, whatever was easiest variety while Dean’s were actual meals, the kind a family would have. He always figured it was because he grew up on the feral side of things while Dean’d had Mom. “Some threat. We both know it’s not me that’s gonna suffer if I do the cooking.”

Dean just growled.

***

The rest of the morning was a repeat of the days before until Sam’s cell rang. A short conversation with their favorite small town sheriff followed by Dean throwing out the _puppy dog _look that was no less powerful for being relatively subdued, they geared up and were soon out the door, heading for Hibbing, Minnesota.

____________________________

“I like her.”

“Who?”

“Miss Peru.” Dean made a gesture. “Who do you think I’m talking about?”

Sam turned from the window. “Oh, you mean Donna? Yeah, she’s great.”

“The way she took that vamp’s head off… You gotta love a woman that knows how to use a machete.”

Sam snorted and then rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Hey?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking, it’s a long drive back—you feel like crashing somewhere?”

Sam expected Dean to say something like, _‘I can do a thirteen-hour drive in my sleep,’_ but he shrugged and said, “There’s not much before and after St. Cloud and you know we have to avoid that place like the plague.”

“Yeah, I know.” St. Cloud, where they’d been run out on a rail because of a hunt gone bad. “We’ll find something.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.” And still thinking about Dean’s, _‘killing those vamps I felt like me again,’ _and his own subdued, _‘Well, let’s go with that.’_

“So,” Dean said absently, “maybe Ogilvie? We’ve never stayed there, right?”

“I think Dad did when he was hunting that vampire that turned out to be a werewolf, but no, we never have.”

“Good. While we’re at it, we’ll find a place to eat; gotta fatten you up.”

Sam did a mental double take. “‘Fatten me up?’ What’re you talking about?”

“You should see yourself—you’re not as bad as you were when I first—” Dean shrugged. “You know, but still…”

“I’m fine, Dean. I…” He rubbed his thighs again, feeling muscle and little fat, remembering with those long black weeks when Dean had been gone. Endless hunting and research, no sleep and only necessary food. Of course it had changed him.

“Sam, it’s okay. It wasn’t a criticism.”

“Yeah, okay, I kno— Wait.” Sam turned. “Is that why you’ve been cooking so much? ‘Cause you’re trying to fatten me up?”

“I’m trying to put some meat on those bones, yeah, trying to take care of you. Sue me.”

Sam had to laugh while the quick anger or irritation or whatever it was fled. It was their defining MO, Dean taking care of him whether he wanted it or not and he could either be angry about that or not. “No, not gonna sue. But seriously…” He turned to the window so Dean wouldn’t see his grin. “If anyone needs to gain weight, it’s you—I bet I could throw you across the room.”

His minor revenge was sweet and Dean sputtered and threw challenge after challenge all the way to Ogilvie.

***

Dean waited in the car while Sam checked them in. The lady in the office was maybe Bobby’s age. She was watching a football game; when Sam entered, she rose with a sigh and a grunt. She turned out to be a chatterbox and she quizzed Sam as he gave her IDs and cash and benign, rote answers he could have trotted out in his sleep. Per usual, the hunt and kill were catching up with him—all he wanted was a bed and a good wi-fi connection. He signed what he needed to sign and took the key. In the middle of reaching out, a yawn caught him by surprise. The woman patted his hand and told him to get a good night’s sleep.

Back in car, he looked down at the key. “We’re in one-nineteen. It’s at the far end. She only had a king.”

Dean peered through the windshield. “How’s that possible? There’s no one here.”

“She’s fumigating the place. There’s gonna be a big Christmas shindig on a nearby farm and she wants to get ready for the overflow.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

Expecting the worst, Sam was surprised by the room. It was clean and pretty and smelled of lavender.

“The lock won’t hold if someone wants to get in,” Dean said, giving the cheap doorknob a twist.

“I’ll put the chair up against it.”

“Maybe I’ll sleep in that chair.” Dean threw the duffle bag on the small table. “I just know you’re gonna be kicking me all night with those freakishly long legs of yours.”

Sam got his shaving kit out of his backpack. “If you wanna sleep in a fumigated room, be my guest, but don’t blame me if your babies have horns.”

Dean snorted and muttered, “What babies?” before beating Sam to the bathroom.

Still holding his kit, Sam stared at the striped bedspread. In the past, when he’d looked into the future imagining his life to be, he’d always pictured a legal practice, a wife, a dog, and, of course, babies. He hadn’t really figured out how he was gonna get to that place and knew it to be mostly a desire fueled by the need to be free of Dad and the life. But then Jess had come along and redefined that desire, had shown him the path. He was certain that if Dean had never shown up on his proverbial doorstep, if Yellow Eyes hadn’t set fate in motion, he and Jess would have gotten married. And they would have had at least one kid.

But Dean and Yellow Eyes had, and Jess was dead. Now, years later, he wasn’t quite sure when that dream had bowed to the reality that he was never gonna leave, at least for any length of time. Maybe it had been the day Dean had died that first time. Maybe twelve months ago during a run-of-the-mill hunt when a few home truths had come knocking.

_‘I needed something that made sense to me—you know, comfort, I guess.’_

_‘Yeah, I guess we’re all looking for that.’_

_‘Except those that got it. Come on. You and Dean? That’s something special, don’t you think?’_

Variations on a theme heard over the years telling him nothing he didn’t know, except…

Except for some reason Jody’s comment still resonated. _‘That’s something special.’ _He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because comfort wasn’t an easy thing. Comfort was bone-deep and elemental in a way love never could be. Comfort meant trust, it meant home and caring. Comfort meant surrendering and giving up a part of oneself so essential that—

“You all right?”

Sam jumped, turning to find Dean in the bathroom doorway. “Yeah. Yeah, just thinking.” Dean had just brushed his teeth and the scent of mint filled the air.

“Do I wanna know what about?”

“Probably not.”

“All righty, then.” Dean bowed, gesturing for Sam to take his place in the bathroom.

***

When Sam got out of the bathroom, Dean was in bed, back turned, already asleep. Sam tucked the chair under the doorknob. It wouldn’t hold against anything with super powers but it would keep out the average vamp or werewolf.

One thought leading to another, Sam got into bed, wondering where Castiel was, if Kate, the-accidental-werewolf, was okay or off on a killing spree. He hadn’t heard from the former since Dean had been cured of the demon and he was praying he never heard from the latter ever again. He liked Kate but she was a monster—if she went bad, Dean wouldn’t have to push him to do the right thing.

Dark thoughts darkening, Sam turned on his side and went to sleep.

***

He’s on fire, burning up, wheezing from the pain.

‘It hurts, I know,’ the demon says. ‘I told you it would but you always know best, don’t you?’

Sam raises his head to peer into the dark, the only movement he can make because he’s tied up, bound to the rack by rawhide and iron.

The creature that is Lucifer steps forward out of the shadows. His eyes glow red and his teeth are bloody. ‘Does it hurt him, do you think, you and your know-it-all ways?’ He traces Sam’s cheek with a claw that scorches. ‘It probably does but then, you’re the imperfection in his soul, the rotting thing he cuddles up to like an addict with a needle.’

Sam knows this is a dream. He knows it but can’t shake it, can’t change it and he groans because it hurts so—

_‘The funny thing about all this, the thing that makes me happy, happy, happy, is the fact that you think you’re so clever. You’ve buried yourself under yourself, a layer of Sams so deep even I can’t get—’_

_Sam jerks, one arm almost free._

_‘That’s it,’ the thing says, its form changing, transforming, a shift all the more horrible because this new nightmare is familiar, this new nightmare is— ‘Struggle all you want, little Moose, you’ll never be free,’ Crowley croons. ‘I’ve got you as I’ve got him.’ _

_Crowley steps closer until he’s pressed up against Sam, his body hotter than the air. ‘But the thing you need to remember, no matter what you do, no matter what you say, I had him firs—’_

With a groan and a grunt, Sam lunged and lashed out, hitting air and then something smooth and warm.

“Jesus Christ on a stick,” Dean growled.

Sam groped, his hand crawling up his chest as if it weren’t his own. His t-shirt was soaked, his neck was slick and he was breathing so hard he was almost panting.

Dean switched on the light. “That was a doozy, I guess.”

Sam swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Lucifer?”

Sam sat up and pulled off his wet t-shirt and then tossed it on the floor. He dropped back to land on the mattress with a thump. “Yeah.”

Dean propped himself up on one elbow. “Fun times.”

“Yeah.”

“Good thing this place is empty otherwise the people next door would be pounding on the wall.”

“Yeah, good thing.” Dean began to pull up the covers but Sam stopped him. “Don’t. It’s too hot.”

“All right.” A beat and then, “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sleeping with you is like sleeping with a camp fire.”

“Don’t blame me. You’re the furnace.”

Sam squinted up. The dream was fading and he hurried it along, concentrating on the stain on the ceiling where rain or snow had got in. “I mean it, dude. I’d forgotten how warm you are.”

There was no answer and Sam turned his head. Fingers just touching the Mark, Dean was staring at him. “Dean?”

There was no reply.

“Dean,” Sam said again, this time in a whisper because it wasn’t normal, the blankness that was Dean’s gaze. “Are you asleep?”

With a smile, Dean reached over and placed his hand on Sam’s chest.

“What’re you doing?”

Another smile, oddly tentative, and Dean slipped his hand up and across Sam’s chest until his palm covered the tattoo.

Breath caught, muscles frozen, Sam couldn’t think of a thing to do. All jokes and the third party innuendo aside, they didn’t touch each other, not like that, and he couldn’t think of a thi— “Hey. Are you okay?”

With a sigh and a blink, Dean became Dean again. He pulled back, then rolled to face the wall and reached for the lamp. “Don’t blame me—you’re the furnace.” He switched the light off.

Sam didn’t know how long he lay there. Probably only a few minutes though it felt like forever as he listened while Dean’s breath evened out to a snore.

When he was able, when he was sure Dean was truly asleep, Sam slid to his feet and stood at the foot of the bed.

He touched the tattoo. What _was _that? A waking dream? A waking nightmare? The Mark or a bit of leftover demon?

Chilled, he got the flask of holy water and a silver knife out of the duffle bag and crept back to the bed. Very carefully, he poured a small amount of water on the back of Dean’s hand. Dean grumbled under his breath but his skin didn’t sizzle or smoke. Next was the flat of the blade with the same result—nothing.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief and put the flask and knife back in the bag. So, not a demon or shapeshifter, but what was going on? Was Dean sleepwalking? No one knew Dean better than he, which meant that he would know if Dean had taken to sleepwalking. Right?

No, because it didn’t scan. Dean had been wide awake only seconds before—he’d been _Dean_. And then something had happened, some weird, invisible transformation had occurred and he’d been _not _Dean.

Sam stood there for another long moment, then got dressed. He needed a second opinion.

***

The temperature had dropped and Sam paced back and forth in the shadows of the building, out of sight in case Dean woke up. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered as the cell ran for the fourth or fifth time. “C’m—”

The line clicked through. “Sam.”

Sam sighed. “Cas.”

“By your tone, I surmise that something is wrong.” There was a short pause. “Is there something wrong?”

Sam had to smile. They hadn’t talked since Castiel had completed the task that Sam had started—curing Dean of the demon—and it was good hearing his voice. “Believe it or not, it has to do with—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted softly. “Is it the Mark?”

“Yeah. No…” Sam combed his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, I don’t know what this is but something’s wrong with him.”

“As usual.”

“Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel sighed. “Can you describe the symptoms?”

“I can, but it’s gonna sound stupid. I mean, it’s really nothing now that I think about it so I’m probably overre—”

“Sam,” Castiel interrupted once more. “If you say something is wrong, then something is wrong.”

“Yeah.” Sam shoved his hand in his pocket. He should have worn a coat—it was freezing. “Yeah, okay. So, for the last couple weeks I’ve noticed that Dean’s been acting kind of odd. I mean, not all the time, but just for a few seconds. Sometimes he freezes up and sometimes it’s like he’s sleepwalking.” Replaying the events out loud somehow made them seem worse and he hunched over. “And then he’s okay like it never happened.”

“Is that all?”

There was no way he was going to tell Cas about what happened in bed so he just muttered, “Yeah, that’s all.”

“There’s a poodle on the You Tube internet. It runs around a yard and then falls over. It’s very funny.”

Castiel’s dry tone made Sam smile again and the knot in his chest loosened. “That’s narcolepsy, Cas. That’s not what’s going on here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I— No, I’m not, but don’t you think it’s odd that it’s happening now? After all he’s been through?”

“Perhaps that’s the problem, Sam. Perhaps Dean’s brain is coping with the extreme trauma of dying several times. And then there’s his period as a demon. You thought we might be harming him by curing him; maybe we did.”

_‘Jesus, Cas,’ _Sam wanted to growl. _‘You’re making it worse,’ _because he hadn’t thought that far along. But none of this was Castiel’s fault so he just admitted, “Maybe.”

“Can you get him to see a doctor? I’m sure there’s a way of scanning his brain for abnormalities.”

“Yeah, about that…” Sam trailed off and began pacing again.

“You want me to examine him.”

Sam shrugged. “That’s not why I called, but now— Yeah, if there’s anything you can do…”

“I can’t invade his mind. It would be too painful and do too much damage. But I might be able to investigate another way.”

“And that is?”

“When you human sleep, a kind of gate in your brain opens up. If I can be with Dean while he sleeps, perhaps I can enter through that gate and examine him.”

“Dean is not gonna be able to sleep with you standing by his bed.”

“Hm, yes, that is probably true. Before, when I had my full powers, he was never happy when I joined him in bed.”

Sam stopped pacing. “You and Dean— Cas?” Warmth curled in his stomach.

“We didn’t engage in sexual relations, in case you are wondering. It would have no doubt been pleasurable but ultimately pointless as we cannot make babies.”

“Uh, that’s not— I mean, yeah, pointless,” Sam repeated, still in a dull state of shock.

“So you and I will hatch up a scheme and I will examine Dean.”

_Don’t think about Dean and Castiel, don’t think about— _“All right, yeah. Let me figure out the best way to do this. I’ll text you.”

“I’ll wait for your message.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sam hung up and stared at the cell, wishing he’d never made the call in the first place.

____________________________

As he should have expected, he had to put the Dean problem on the backburner. Within hours of arriving at the bunker, Cas called, asking them to join him in Pontiac, Illinois for a very important mission. After that, they were busy hunting down Claire Novak and her douche of a replacement father—as Dean had put it—only to switch gears when two Charlies returned from Oz.

And after that, well…

____________________________

“Where is he?” Castiel said as he glanced around.

“At the bunker, in his room,” Sam replied. “He says he’s not coming out until the Mark is off his arm.”

Castiel frowned. “That hardly seems practical. He must eat sometime and then there’s the endless bathing and defecating you humans do.”

“I’m bringing him his meals.” Sam pocketed his keys and sat on the bench. He’d picked a small park in Beloit for their meeting. It had a playground and a shallow lake that was partially frozen. Late in the day, there was no one about. “As for bathing and defecating…” He shrugged and grinned weakly, trying for humor that wasn’t there.

“Does he know you’re meeting me?”

“No,” Sam said. “I told him we were out of food.”

With a sigh and a murmured, “Another lie,” Castiel sat, too. “It is very cold.”

He nodded. “Yeah”

“Christmas is coming. Someone put red and green lights on a silo.”

“Is it pretty?” Sam hadn’t noticed, driving to and from Salina as fast as he’d dared to make his lie about a grocery run actually true.

“It is.” Castiel tipped his head. “The air smelled of cow food, however, which isn’t a scent one would normally equate with the birth of Jesus.”

Smiling again, this time for real, Sam propped his elbows on his knees. “Thanks for coming, Cas. I’m sorry our last meeting got so screwed up.” He glanced over at Castiel. “Did you get in trouble?”

“About returning Metatron in a clearly injured state? There were words.” Castiel shrugged. “But what am I going to do?”

Sam hid another smile. “Let the bad times roll off you.”

“As we do.”

“Yeah, as we do,” Sam murmured. He clasped his hands together. “Feel like having another go at Dean?”

“There wasn’t a first but I understand what you mean, and yes, I’m willing. I thought I had a lead on Cain, but…” Castiel shook his head. “How would you like to proceed?”

“It’ll be difficult sneaking you into the bunker so I was thinking I could make up some excuse to get Dean out. Maybe a hunt or something.”

“Will that work if he’s refusing to leave?”

“I don’t know but I’ve got to try. It happened three more times.”

Castiel reached over and laid his hand on Sam’s. “I’m sorry. Yes, I will try again.”

“Thanks, Cas. If it wasn’t for you, I’d—” Sam swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Anyway, I really appreciate it.”

The moment was broken by a kid riding by on a bike. He whistled and then shouted, “Dudes! Get a room!”

Face burning, Sam drew away from Castiel.

“Why would we want to get a room?” Castiel asked, staring after the kid. “Is it because it’s so cold?”

“It’s— It’s—” Sam got to his feet. “I’ll explain later.”

Cas stood up, too. “Very well.”

“I’ll text you as soon as I figure out where we’re gonna be.” He backed up so there were a couple feet between him and Castiel. Dean always complained that angels had no sense of personal space; guess that was true. “It’s too bad you’re wingless.”

“Yes. That would make this so much easier.”

Neither said anything for a moment and then, feeling awkward and stupid, Sam waved and went back to the car.

***

It took him three days and four supposed cases before he was able to pry Dean out of the bunker. It wasn’t even really a case, just a missing person’s report from a small town in northern Oregon. Still, he managed to convince Dean of its importance and they left at noon that day. Knowing they would have to stop in Kearney to gas up and get supplies, Sam had his plan ready to go. After Dean went inside to pay, he called Cas and gave him the details.

When Dean got back to the car and asked Sam if he was ready, Sam hid a nervous smile and said, “Always.”

***

This early in the season, the roads were relatively clear. They hit a five-mile stretch of packed snow and ice west of Rock Springs and then heavy construction east of Boise. The latter slowed them down to a crawl. Dean fumed until Sam convinced him that they should stop. It was going on eight, he said, and there was a long stretch of nothing coming up—they might as well take it easy and get an early start. He expected an argument in return but all Dean gave him was a muttered, _‘Fucking Boise traffic.’_

Sam made a call to Castiel while Dean checked them into a room at the ‘Nite-’Nite motel. Cas was an only an hour behind. Sam told him to sit tight and that he’d call as soon as Dean fell asleep.

The evening took another unexpected turn as soon as Dean got back to the car. Instead of wanting to hole up as he had at the bunker, Dean announced that he wanted to get his drunk on and that Sam was gonna have to come along in order to keep him out of trouble.

Surprised but pleased because Dean generally didn’t ask, they drove to Boise and then around town until they found a steakhouse that wasn’t too respectable. Sam had a burger while Dean had a cut of meat bigger than his plate, and beer after beer. Sam finally pulled the plug when Dean had reached the drunk-but-still-charming phase. He paid for the meal and gathered Dean up. They stumbled out into the cold, Sam with his arm around Dean’s waist and Dean smiling at everyone.

By the time they got back to the motel, Dean had passed out against Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned off the Impala’s engine but didn’t move. It had started to snow, just little flakes of floating nothing, and he suddenly hit with a peculiar sense of hollow homesickness. “I wish it was just this,” he whispered to Dean. Just the familiar cycle of pent-up anger followed by edge-softening beer and then sleep. Not the Mark, or the Blade, or any of the things that had fucked Dean up, over and over.

“S’that?” Dean mumbled into Sam’s sleeve.

“Nothing,” Sam said, gently shoving Dean away. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Dean listed to the side. “I might have to yak first.”

“I’m not gonna stop you.”

Dean snorted and fumbled for the door handle. “Like you could.”

***

Dean fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed. Sam took off his boots, jacket and shirt, then covered him with the blanket. He was getting his cell out when a knock came at the door. Peering out, he was surprised to see Castiel on the stoop, head tilted, breath frosty in the air.

Sam made sure Dean was still out of it, then went outside. He nodded towards the line of cars. They found cover in the leeward side of an ancient RV.

“How is Dean?” Castiel asked.

“He just passed out,” Sam whispered.

“If he’s very drunk, this might not work.”

“He’s not,” Sam said with a frown. One-hour hindsight, he realized that, yes, Dean had put away a few beers but not enough to make him pass out. “I mean he drank a lot but no more than usual. I don’t know why he’s so out of it.”

“Maybe it’s the Mark.”

“It was a long haul from home, but yeah, maybe.” Sam put his hands in his pockets. “So how’s this gonna work?”

“I will attempt to establish a connection by touching his forehead.”

“Like you do when you’re knocking someone out?”

Castiel smiled briefly. “Yes, like that. The same ability that allows me to put someone asleep allows me to follow them in, but Sam, there is one thing you must know.”

_Please don’t let it be bad… _“Yeah?”

“This isn’t mindreading or clairvoyance—I’ll be looking for physical damage and because the human brain is incredibly complex, I might not find anything.”

“I understand, Cas, but right now, you’re my best bet.”

Castiel tipped his head in an almost-courtly gesture of acceptance. “Then let’s proceed.”

***

When they got to the room, Dean had flopped over on his back. He was snoring, a soft, familiar burr that eased the tension in Sam’s chest. Gesturing once more for Castiel to wait, Sam locked the front door and then went to Dean’s bed and rolled him onto his side.

“Why did you do that?” Cas whispered.

“Because he’s drunk,” Sam whispered back.

“Why—”

Dean muttered something under his breath; Sam frowned and put his finger to his lips. With a sharp wave, he led Castiel into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. “I turned him on his side,” he whispered, “because he’s drunk.”

Castiel cocked his head. “And?”

“And when you’re drunk and passed out, you can barf and then drown.”

“A person can drown in their own vomit?”

Sam nodded, his lips pressed tight.

Castiel wrinkled his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

He raised his eyebrows and said a silent, impatient, _‘Yeah it is. Can we get back to it?’_

Castiel got the message. With a nod, he went back out to the room.

Sam had, of course, imagined what Castiel’s examination would look like—a bright light, Dean waking right in the middle of it. But it was nothing much, just a simple laying on of hands. Castiel sat on the bed behind Dean and reached over and touched his temple. The evaluation didn’t take very long. After a minute or so, Castiel pulled back and then got to his feet. He led Sam outside.

“Well?” Sam asked impatiently as soon as they were behind the RV again. “Did anything happen? Could you—”

“Yes, something happened,” Castiel interrupted with a frown. “But I’m not sure what it means.”

“So,” Sam said, struggling for a smile. “Not good?”

“It’s neither good nor bad, Sam, it just is.”

“Can you explain that, Cas, ‘cause I’m kinda freaking out here.”

Castiel looked up at Sam. His expression changed and his shoulders dropped. “I envy you, sometimes. Your love for your brother is complicated and confusing, but it’s also strong and pure.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “Thanks, Cas, but that’s not helping.”

“But it is my point. If I were to touch your forehead, I would sense those strong emotions, that love and concern. But when I touched Dean, I felt none of that. It was almost as if his mind was covered by a thin veil.”

Sam felt sick. “Is it the Mark?”

Castiel frowned and then shook his head. “It might be but I don’t believe so. This wasn’t an angry thing, Sam. I didn’t sense rage or fury. It was just a, a—” He shook his head, visibly searching for the word.

“A thin veil?”

“Yes.”

“What could have caused it?”

“Many things, I would think. Your brother has been through a lot.”

Frustrated, Sam turned away and combed his fingers through his hair, pulling hard, using the tiny pain as a focal point.

“I wish I could tell you more,” Castiel said. “If only I could see one of the events while it is happening.”

“But I never know when it _is _gonna happen.” Sam shook his head again. “I guess I could try recording one.”

“You mentioned there were three recent instances. I take it that means they’re increasing in frequency and length?”

“No,” Sam said immediately only to follow with a slower, “Maybe,” because he really didn’t know, did he? He wasn’t monitoring Dean on an hourly basis. For all he knew, Dean was fugueing out ten times a day. “I mean, I don’t really know. He never does it when he’s driving or when we’re hunt—” He stopped talking because that wasn’t strictly true. Dean _had _fugued out on a hunt, and relatively recently… “Remember a few weeks back when we were looking for Claire?”

“Of course, I do, Sam. It was twenty-two days ago.”

He began to pace. “Yeah, well, remember when we were sitting in that bar and Dean told you the story about Dad. You asked if we thought Claire was in trouble and Dean said yeah and then he went to the bathroom. Do you remember when he came back and he stood there in the hallway for a moment and you asked—”

“If he was okay,” Castiel interrupted absently. “Yes, I remember.”

“I think that was one of them, the incidences. It’s like he just stops.” Sam raised his hands, trying to convey the weirdness of seeing Dean transform. “And then he’s back to normal. I mean, sometimes it’s seconds, sometimes it’s longer.”

“And these moments when he stops, does his eyes turn black or white?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. He’s just not Dean.” He really should tell Castiel about the last time, in bed with Dean touching him and he was working up to it, but before he could find the words he heard a shuffle behind him.

“Sam?”

Sam twisted so fast he slipped on the slick asphalt.

Dean was standing on the sidewalk that fronted the motel. He wasn’t wearing his coat or boots. His expression was vacant, his mouth lax and his eyes… His eyes reflected the moonlight and Sam recalled the movie theater and how weird Dean’s eyes had been. Silver and otherworldly and a little creepy. “Dean?”

“Why’re you out here?” Dean said, his voice sluggish and low. “C’mon. C’mon back inside.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean didn’t blink, didn’t turn his head. “It’s cold, Sammy. You’ll get cold.”

“Dean?” Sam said, shooting a quick glance at Castiel. Yeah, it was cold but he was wearing two shirts, a hoodie and a jacket, and besides… “Cas said hi.”

Still, Dean ignored everything but Sam. He came closer, almost plodding. “We gotta get up early, remember? Gotta catch that little bastard and make him show us his collection.”

Sam swallowed and then said the first thing that came to mind, “Sorry, Dean. I forgot.”

Dean tipped his head. He smiled. “I know. It’s been hard on you but you’ll be okay. Just keep an eye on Crowley and we’ll be golden.”

“I—” Completely confused, Sam could only stammer a weak, “Yeah, yeah, okay, I’ll do that. I’ll watch him.” Dean smiled and it was such a _not-_Dean smile that Sam had to keep from retreating.

And then, like something from a fucked-up dream, Dean slipped his hand under Sam’s jacket and stood on tiptoe to kiss the corner of Sam’s mouth. “I’m going back in. Don’t be long.” He turned and left.

Sam’s heart was pounding and his skin was burning but he waited until Dean had gone, peering around the RV to make sure he got to the room. And then he spun around and demanded, “Okay, see? What the hell was that?” The spot that Dean had kissed felt odd, as if Dean had used a brand and not his mouth.

Castiel didn’t answer right away and when he did, it wasn’t the response Sam was expecting: “I didn’t realize you two were lovers.”

Lips numb, body stiff, Sam snarled, “We’re not! This is— It’s just part of his weirdness. I—”

“Because it seemed to me as if he is your lover.”

Sam made a sharp gesture. “He’s not! We’re not… Stop saying the word ‘lover!’ It’s freaking me out!”

Castiel studied Sam. “I’m aware of the human taboo against incest although the nuances are confusing. Is that why you’re so upset? Because of the nuances?”

Sam scrubbed his face, wishing he could scrub away the last two minutes. “Cas—”

“For example, intergenerational incest seems to be the most revil—”

“Cas!” Sam said, as loud as he dared. “Could you shut up about…” He glanced around before finishing in a hissed whisper, “…incest? That’s not the problem!”

After a moment, Castiel nodded. “Of course I can.”

Sam drew a deep breath. “Good.”

“However, I see now what you mean. He didn’t seem himself. He normally wouldn’t ignore me.”

“No, he didn’t and he wouldn’t.”

“And he had his hand over the Mark. Generally, he doesn’t touch it.”

Sam drew another breath, this one more shallow as his heartbeat slowed and panic subsided. “You’re right.” Dean had concealed the Mark the whole time. Well, except when he— Sam swallowed. “I didn’t even notice.”

“What was that about Crowley?”

“I have no idea.” Sam shook his head. “We haven’t seen in him in weeks. And as far as I know, Dean hasn’t spoken to him.”

“Hm,” Castiel murmured as he stared at Sam.

Suddenly as tired like he’d run a quick ten miles, all up hill, Sam said, “I better get in there to see if he’s okay. Can you meet me tomorrow?”

“I can. Won’t Dean be suspicious?”

“I doubt he’ll remember you were even here.”

Castiel sighed mournfully. “That’s not good.”

***

Dean was, as Sam expected, flat out, sound asleep as if he’d never gotten up.

Sam watched for a moment, then pulled off Dean’s dirty socks and tugged the blanket up. He went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

He brushed his teeth mechanically, examining his face and throat, concluding that shaving could wait another day. Then he turned off the bathroom light and stripped down to a t-shirt and shorts and got into bed.

He rolled to his back.

Like putting a key to a lock, the fresh memory tumbled out and he relived the shock of Dean’s kiss. What _was_ that? The Mark had never pushed Dean that way before. It had made him crazy and angry and fucking scary, but not—

Sam closed his eyes as if that would make the memory go away. It didn’t. It presented itself with diamond hard clarity: the way Dean had smelled of beer and that new fabric softener they’d bought the week before. The greater difference in their heights because Dean wasn’t wearing boots and Sam was. The span and warmth of Dean’s arm around his waist, the firm pressure that shouldn’t have felt so good and then…

Sam groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. _Fuck. _He needed to forget. He had to concentrate on what mattered.

All he had to do was put it behind him and forget. He’d done it before; he could do it again.

But he lay there as the night grew old, his stomach burning, his eyes dry while he tried not to think, tried not to remember.

____________________________

Sam wasn’t able to meet Castiel the next day or the day after. Two mythical figures from pretty much every child’s fairy tale book turned out to be not so mythical after all, and they kept Dean and him busy. But once they were done with Hansel and the old witch, Sam called Castiel from the car while Dean checked them out of the motel.

“Sam.”

“Hey Cas.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am, a little.”

“Did you find your vanishing town folk?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“I take it Dean is not with you?”

“He’s still in the motel.” Sam peered through the rain-covered windshield. Dean was leaning on the counter, talking to the woman at the desk. “I only have a few minutes.”

“When would you like to meet?”

“Yeah, about that—I think Dean’s gonna want to drive straight through. We won’t have time to meet until I get back to the bunker.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you do a very un-Winchester-like thing and tell him what’s going on?”

“What would I say, Cas? ‘Hey, Dean, just thought you’d like to know that along with the momentous pile of shit you’re dealing with, you’re also a zombie. I can’t prove it and it only lasts a little while, but there you go. Oh, and by the way, you keep feeling me up and—’” He ground to a halt and clamped his mouth shut.

“‘_Keep_ feeling you up?’” Castiel said. “It was only the one time, yes?”

Dean was backing away from the counter. “He’s almost done. I have to hang up soon.”

“Sam.”

“It was the one time.” There was no response and Sam looked at the phone to see if they’d gotten disconnected. “Cas?”

“I’m here.”

“So, yeah, I was gonna say that I’ll do some research. When I get back to the bunker, I mean.”

“Okay.”

“And then I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

Sam could almost _feel _the question that Castiel wanted to ask. “Dean’s coming back,” he lied. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

Sam hung up, pressing the button a little more forcefully than necessary. And then he put the phone away and stared at nothing.

***

“You done?”

Sam looked up from the two packages of printer paper he was holding. “Hey, which do you think is better—this one?” He held up the package in his left hand. “Or this one?” He held up the package in his right.

Dean pursed his lips and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Sam said, tossing the ninety-six percent brightness version in the cart and put the other one back. “But if it screws up the printer, don’t blame me.”

Dean turned the cart and they headed towards the front of the store. “Why’re you worrying so much about it? It’s freaking paper, man.”

“It’s paper that we need if we’re gonna keep doing what we’re doing. It’s important to document, Dean.”

Dean didn’t answer; he’d stopped by the display of car mats. It was the second time he’d stopped, according to Sam’s count. The Wichita County Wal-Mart was—in Dean’s muttered words, _‘Too damn big’— _and they kept retracing their steps which meant going past the car parts aisle a couple times. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Dean started pushing the cart again. “You wanna know what I got you for Christmas?”

“For the last time, no, I don’t.” It had become a game for Dean, teasing Sam about the big, special Christmas gift he’d bought the week before. “There’s a reason people wrap presents. It’s so it’s a surprise.”

Dean leaned sideways and pressed his shoulder against Sam’s arm. “C’mon. I know you want to know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Yeah, I’m horrible.”

Dean stopped again, this in front of a shelf of puzzles and games. “Hey, have you ever done a puzzle?”

Sam stopped as well. “I don’t remember,” he said, mostly to keep talking because, sure enough, Dean had stilled, his face blank, his eyes glazed. “Dean?” Sam whispered. Today had been bad—Dean had zombiefied three times. Twice at the bunker, once in the restaurant where they’d stopped for lunch. The moments had only lasted a few seconds but still, three times…

With a sigh and a shiver, Dean came back to himself. “Have you ever done a puzzle?”

Heartsick, Sam answered, “No.”

Dean picked up a box. “We should get one. We can use the library table.”

“Won’t it get in the way of all the books and stuff?”

“Those tables are humongous and we have two of them. There’s room.” Dean gave Sam the box.

Sam examined the tiny picture, saying absently, “Are you sure? Ten bucks is a lot for something we might not use.”

“The way we grew up, how will we know if we don’t like something if we don’t try it?” The puzzle was a bucolic, boring painting of people in a town getting ready for the Fourth of July. In the background was a city complete with an amusement park and a zoo. Across the top in scrolled letters were the words _‘Happy Birthday, America.’_

“So? Ten bucks isn’t that much.”

Sam looked up; Dean was watching him with a hopeful expression. “Sure,” he said, feeling that odd, hollow warmth in the pit of his stomach. “In fact, as long as we’re here, we might as well get two.” He grabbed another puzzle at random and dropped both in the cart. “You never know, right?”

“Yep.”

***

When they got back to the bunker and put the supplies away, Dean said he had to change the oil in the car. Sam said he was gonna do some research on the Mark and he waited, listening carefully to make sure Dean really was in the garage before opening his laptop. He found what he needed right away—personalized floor mats for the Impala. They were crazy expensive, especially the shipping, but he bit the bullet, selected the ones he wanted, and hit ‘send.’ It would be okay. They’d probably have a case in the next week or two and he’d hustle the money in some no-name town.

***

Sam dreamed that night.

It was a familiar, skin-deep dream of running barefoot through a half-burned house. On and on until—

_‘Dean?’ Sam asks, sliding to a stop on the cold floor. He’s in the bunker, in the library. Dean is standing before the table nearest the telescope. He’s bent over, concentrating on something lying on the table. Sam comes closer, close enough to see that there’s nothing on the table, just an expanse of glossy wood._

_‘Don’t be afraid, Sammy,’ Dean says without looking up. ‘Here…’ Dean picks something up and then straightens and turns. He holds the something out—it’s the First Blade, dripping with blood._

_Slowly, because Dean’s eyes are blank and his voice is weird, Sam reaches out. He takes the Blade only it’s not the Blade anymore but a puzzle piece. He peers at it; it’s a part of a zoo, a cage that holds a panther. The panther’s eyes are wide and green-gold. _

_‘Do it, Sam.’_

_Sam looks down. The table is covered with the mostly-finished puzzle. There’s one space left. Like the air has turned to sand, Sam takes those last final steps and bends to put the piece where it belongs. It doesn’t fit._

_‘It’s okay,’ Dean says, coming up behind Sam. ‘I won’t let him hurt you.’ And then Dean leans against Sam, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist, his cheek against Sam’s shoulder blade. ‘I prom—’_

Sam woke with a gasp. “Shit,” he whispered after a moment, after his heart thumped and then steadied to a quick, strangled beat.

_Shit. _

Cheeks on fire, he kicked off the covers and then skated his hand down his chest to his belly. His dick was hard. From one stupid dream it was hard. Sam groaned and closed his eyes, pushing his t-shirt up, curling his fingers in the curve of his stomach. He wanted to touch himself so bad but he couldn’t so he scraped, dragging into his own skin with his fingernails. It had been like this with Lucifer, pain the only recourse and resource and he dug harder, wishing he could yank this bad thing out, throw it away once and for—

“What are you doing?”

His eyes flew open and he sat up as the night broke apart. Dean was standing in the doorway, a dark form against the yellow-grey light. “I—” Panic chilled Sam’s face and throat. He shook his head. “I—” he tried again this time with a smile, a pathetic, unconvincing show that wouldn’t fool a kid.

“Yeah, I know.” Dean stepped across the threshold. “You’re so alone, aren’t you, Sammy?”

“No, I—” he stammered. “I’m not, I jus—”

“It’s okay,” Dean said, taking another step. “I heard you. It’s okay.”

Sam frowned. The world was pitching sideways, taking him with it. “What are you talk—”

“That time in Albuquerque, the week before you ran.” Dean touched the Mark and then covered it with his hand. “I took care of you then, remember?”

They’d never spoken about it after, the side effect from the night Dad and Sam had gotten into another knock-down-drag-out, barely without the punching.

Just a lot of shouting about futures and college recruiters, Dean in the middle, trying to make peace as usual but ignored at every turn. After Dad had left—slamming the cheap motel door so hard it splintered at the hinges—Sam had stood there, almost shaking with rage. Dean had soothed Sam’s fury the way he solved his own problems, even clear back then: with a finger of something dark poured into Dixie cups from the bathroom. Dean had gotten drunk but Sam had gotten plastered, sitting on the edge of the bed while the rage muted and transformed into something cold and wild, needy as well as greedy.

But it hadn’t been Dean—it hadn’t.

It had been Sam that had leaned in after teasing Dean about a recent conquest, making a bad joke and nuzzling Dean’s ear and then jaw, petting Dean’s leg because his head was buzzing and his dream was gone and nothing mattered anymore. Not Dad, not hunting, not the university he wanted to go to but wouldn’t… When Dean had pushed Sam back, it had been Sam that had muttered, _‘Wait,’ _and Sam that had leaned closer and grabbed Dean’s hand to guide them both down his stomach to the front of his jeans, pressing and sighing and mumbling, _‘It’ll be okay, I promise, I promise—’_

Sam shivered at the memory and forced it back to the tomb where it belonged. “Dean, I think—”

“That’s your problem.” One more step; Dean was within arm’s reach. “You think too much, Sammy. It always gets you into trouble.”

“Dean—”

Dean let go of the Mark and sat on the bed. He touched Sam’s leg.

Days later, Sam admitted to himself that he could have stopped it. So easily he could have stopped it because Dean’s tone was soft, sluggish, a clear sign that he was fugueing out again. And it had been wrong, right? To take advantage of someone who might as well be drugged?

But Dean’s hip was pressed against Sam’s thigh and he smelled of gun oil and whiskey, two scents that were quintessentially Dean. And then there was the dream and the memory that wasn’t really a memory but living proof that Sam had never forgotten, had never let go…

Lust and love wrestled with fear and confusion for a bare second though it was never a contest. With a sigh that was all kinds of shaky, Sam leaned forward and brushed his lips against Dean’s cheek.

“Sammy,” Dean murmured, twisting to rub the back of his hand against Sam’s chest. Then again, _“Sammy,” _as he followed the trail Sam had so forged, only Dean was braver because he went further, under the waistband of Sam’s shorts and—

_“Jesus,” _Sam groaned at the touch of Dean’s fingertips.

Dean breathed a laugh. “You like that?”

Sam covered Dean’s hand with his own. “Shut up, just—” He wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist and gripped whatever he could, making a cave of his own body, shutting out the light, shutting out everything but his brother.

Dean laughed again, low and sexy, his breath warm on Sam’s ear. “I guess you do.”

He wanted so badly to kiss Dean, to open Dean’s mouth with his own—he was almost shuddering from the need of it. But that was too real, too intimate, so he hid in the black, his face tucked into the curve of Dean’s throat. Curled together, Dean brought Sam off while Sam gasped and groaned. When he came, mind empty of memory and thought, Dean was still there, whispering in his ear, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

***

Sam woke to the chirp of his phone. He was reaching for it, wondering why he was so tired when he remembered. If the desire had been a shock, the shame was doubly so and his stomach clenched like he had the flu. Against all his private promises and vows, his pretense that Albuquerque had never happened, they’d done it again.

They’d done it again.

He moaned softly and rubbed his stomach, pressing hard, pressing the hours-old memory down with the other. It didn’t work and he took a deep breath and tried again, tried to focus on the feeling of his hand on his belly and not the memory of Dean’s. The same result: the shame didn’t lessen, didn’t retreat.

Okay. What was important was to be logical and think it through. He was no longer a kid—he couldn’t just leave for Stanford or wherever. He needed to stay and do the job and try to figure out how to help Dean.

And maybe that was the difference? Maybe giving in had been just a way to help Dean, to make things better for _him. _

The moment the thought crossed Sam’s mind, he exhaled a sour laugh. Of course it hadn’t been for Dean and he wasn’t gonna rationalize it away with ridiculous thoughts of altruism. He’d done it for one person and to think anything else would compound the shame. He’d accused Dean of self-delusion so many times—he couldn’t go down that same path.

Sam sighed, turned on his side and curled up, avoiding the spot where Dean had been.

Dean, of course, was gone. As soon as Sam had come, Dean had left. Wham bam thank you ma’am, leaving Sam with the fallout. Hindsight being what it was, how had he managed to fall asleep? He didn’t really remember so maybe the zombie illness was contagious.

Sam snorted again because, no, that was self-deception, too. It wasn’t a contagion or an illness; it was just another way of coping. Don’t like it, run. Can’t run, ignore. Or sleep, as the case may be.

Suddenly irritated at himself, Sam pushed to his feet and went to the mirror.

He looked normal. He looked fine. No bruises on his neck or arms. Nothing to show what had happened from those ten minutes with Dean. Just some stiff shorts and a weird heaviness in his arms and chest.

Wondering how the hell he was going to face Dean again, he grabbed his clothes and padded to the showers.

***

Scrubbed clean as if that would make the shame any less, wanting to do anything but what he had to do, Sam went to the kitchen. It was almost funny—he was tiptoeing down the hall like he was approaching a nest of vamps, feeling the same dread, muscles tight, ready for anything…

Dean was at the stove, making eggs. When Sam came in, he turned. “Hey,” he said with a sunny smile.

So, not anything, just Dean, and Sam straightened up. “Hey.” Dean had showered, too. His hair was still damp.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He sat down at the table. “You?”

“I feel great.” Dean turned off the burner and dished out the eggs. “Best sleep I’ve had in months.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm, mm, and before you ask…” Dean put a plate in front of Sam and took a seat opposite. “Yes, these eggs have cholesterol-filled yellow bits but I promise to eat something healthy for lunch.” He nodded to the plate. “Eat before they get cold.”

Sam picked up a fork. If those ten minutes hadn’t left a sign on his own body, his brother hadn’t been so lucky. There were bruises on Dean’s biceps and forearms. And there, mostly hidden by his collar, was a faint purple mark that could only be a hickey. Sam’s belly clenched again and when he spoke, his throat was dry, “What happened there?” He nodded to Dean’s arms.

“Yeah,” Dean said, frowning down at his arms. “I noticed them this morning; probably got them when I was working on the car.”

“Huh.”

Dean looked up. “You sure you’re okay?”

_‘No, Dean, I’m not okay. Just like that other time, I practically attacked you and you don’t remember it and the whole thing is making me sick to my stomach.’ _“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Good, ‘cause I think we’ve got a case.”

***

The case turned out not to be a case, just some bored Colorado teenagers who thought messing around with a nativity scene was funny.

“It was, sorta,” Dean said. “I mean, replacing Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus with devil dummies was sort of funny, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Not that the sheriff thought so, but that stick up his ass probably makes thinking hard, anyway.”

Sam hunched his shoulders and blinked away the snow. “Probably.”

“So how ‘bout we summon Crowley and set him loose on the town, show these hayseeds what a real devil looks like.”

“Yeah, ok—” Sam stopped, his boots sliding on the icy sidewalk. They’d arrived in Julesburg just as it had started to snow and the streets were already blanketed with white. “Seriously?”

Dean grinned. “Knew you weren’t listening.”

“I was, too. I was—” Sam sighed. “Yeah, okay, I wasn’t.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean teased as they crossed the street to where the car was waiting. “Worried Santa isn’t gonna come?”

“No, I’m worried that you’re gonna shoot him if he makes an appearance.” It was a mean-spirited comment, but Dean just smiled.

“That would be a new low for the Winchesters. Shooting Santa Claus as he zips down the proverbial chimney. Besides, been there, done that, right?”

Sam smiled weakly because there’d been a moment, after they’d figured out what the kids were up to, when he thought Dean actually was gonna shoot one of them. It had been the first time Dean had zombied out while on a hunt and it had been scary as hell. And then there was the Incident at the bunker—an event Sam couldn’t help but label with a capital ‘I.’ It was still making the rounds in his brain like a demented squirrel and if he didn’t do something about it, he was gonna go fucking craz—

“Sam?”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile as he brushed the snow off the passenger-side window. “It would be a new low.”

____________________________

On the surface, Christmas was a low-key affair. Their December twenty-fifth celebrations were never Hallmark-commercial-perfect; Sam was used to spending the day on the road, apart or just skipping it altogether. This year, Dean wanted to do the traditional, open-presents-at-the-crack-of-dawn thing so Sam hauled himself out of bed at six and went up to the library.

Dean was already there. He’d put a portable heater between the two chairs near the bookshelves. In front of that miniature, fake fireplace was a two-foot pine tree and a small pile of wrapped presents. Dean was still wearing his version of pajamas—a t-shirt and shorts—and a robe. He was decorating the tree with little yellow bows.

“Is that tree real?” Sam said.

“As real as it gets.”

“You’re gonna burn the place down. Is that—” He squinted at the yellow bows. “Is that electrical wire?”

“It sure as hell is. Only the best for us, Sammy.” And then Dean turned and smiled up at Sam.

It was ridiculous, the tree, the heater and Dean, looking like a kid. Sam’s chest warmed and he wanted to say,_ ‘I love you so much, I don’t know what to do about it, and your zombie act is freaking me out,’_ but of course he couldn’t, so he didn’t. “I gotta get your gift.”

Dean grinned and jerked his head to the presents. “It’s over here.”

Back to the safety of irritation, Sam made a show of pressing his lips together as he retrieved the long shipping box, propped up behind the chair.

“As if you could ever hide anything from me.” Dean finished with the tree and sat back.

Sam flushed but concealed it by sitting on the floor next to Dean. “We have perfectly good chairs, you know.”

“Yeah, but this is more fun. Now…” Dean rubbed his hands together. “What’d’you get me?”

Glancing at the gifts, Sam gave the box to Dean. “I didn’t have time to wrap it,” he said though it wasn’t true. He’d had time—he just hadn’t done it and he wasn’t sure why.

“Like I care about that.” Dean ripped the tape off the box. “Besides, you’re always going on about using less and recycl—” Dean’s voice trailed off.

They were just floor mats. A set for the front and back made of plush material that matched the color of the Impala’s interior. At first Sam was gonna have them monogrammed with something like a knife or gun. But then he’d thought about all the crap Dean had been through. Violence had been a part of Dean’s life from the get go, but it wasn’t all he was and Sam had instead gone with a simple _DW_. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, his voice low as he traced the swooping ‘W.’ “I mean, what’s not to? You probably spent too much, though.”

Sam wrapped his arms around his knees. The urge to reach out and touch was so strong his fingers itched. “Nah, it’s fine. Besides, I can always hustle up the money.”

“Yeah.” Dean looked up. “Yeah.”

It was an odd moment, separated by three feet of air, a cardboard box, and the pressure of all the years. Dean was watching him with a steady gaze that wasn’t masked by anything other than love. Feeling as if he were facing a whirlwind, Sam broke the moment by giving Dean a cocky smile. “So where’s mine?”

Dean blinked and then pushed the stack of wrapped gifts towards Sam. “Don’t say I never got you nothing.”

Happy to have something to concentrate on, Sam opened the first gift. “_The Book of Lambspring,_” he murmured. “Where did you get it?”

“From this podunk bookstore in Bismarck, North Dakota. The dude clearly didn’t know what it was ‘cause I got it for a song.”

“When were we in Bismarck?” Sam opened the book. _The Book of Lambspring _was written in 1599 by an alchemist named Nicholas Bernaud. This edition was reprinted in 1913; the former owner, Zipporah Phillips, had inscribed her name on the flyleaf. The Men of Letters library had two copies, both newer editions. “I don’t remember.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, it was just me. Me and Crowley to be exact.”

Sam raised his head. That could only mean that Dean had bought the book months ago when he’d still been a black-eyed demon and that meant— “Oh,” Sam said.

Dean shrugged. “Don’t go making it into something it’s not, Sammy. I saw it and thought you’d like it. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, putting the book on the chair. He’d store it in the glass case along with the other rare volumes.

“I’m almost afraid to give you the other gifts,” Dean joked. “Don’t need you getting all mushy.”

Wanting to say, _‘Who was getting all mushy just a few minutes ago?’ _Sam instead reached for the next present and unwrapped it. It was plain box, made of oak or ash or some other light colored wood. He raised the lid. Inside on the left were three fountain pens, each in their own separate nest. On the other side was a stack of notepaper.

“I figured if you’re gonna be a Man of Letters, you needed something better to write with than those crappy Bics.”

“Yeah,” Sam said when he was sure his voice wouldn’t sound weird or anything.

“I mean, I still think it would be better to just put everything in the computer but you say it’s safer to write it down, so…” Dean trailed off again. “It’s what Dad did, anyway.”

“It’s— Yeah, it’s safer that way,” Sam said again this time running his fingers over the hinges. “Did you make the box?”

Dean clasped his hands together. “I found some wood in the basement. It wasn’t difficult or anything.”

Sam closed the box and placed his palms on the smooth surface. “It’s beautiful.”

“The other present is just some ink and stuff.” Dean scrubbed at his thighs and then got to his feet. “I gotta go get the roast on. Can you clean this crap up?”

Sam didn’t look up as Dean strode off and he was still sitting there when Dean returned with two cups of coffee.

____________________________

Demonland was quiet over the next few days. And that was a good thing according to Dean because the skies above Kansas finally decided it was winter and dumped two feet of snow on the ground. It was bone-chillingly cold and icy and, _‘There’s no way I’m gonna get salt and shit on Baby’s perfect undercarriage.’ _So they holed up in the bunker during the week the old year gave way to the new.

Without speaking of it, neither spent any time looking for ways to remove the Mark. Dean watched old movies while Sam read. On New Year’s Eve, Dean cracked open the puzzle and they worked on it while finishing a fifth of whiskey. Dean gave up first, frustrated with the puzzle’s difficulty, saying that games were for nerds. Sam kept at it, though. He found that staring at the pieces, cataloging their shapes and colors helped sooth his Mark-related anxiety. At midnight, Dean said, _‘Happy New Year, Sammy,’ _and then hit the sack. Sam stayed up until one, partially because he was too tired to move but mostly because the days since the Incident had been okay but the nights weren’t.

Like a blow to an-already crumbling wall, those ten minutes of sex with Dean had caused a fracture in Sam’s mind and it turned out his sleeping brain was endlessly creative when it came to Dean-inspired fantasies and wet dreams. More than once he woke up with a groan, sweating, hard and aching. More than once he was completely grateful that his instincts had been right on the money when he’d picked a room far from Dean’s. At the time it had been because he’d thought their stay would be temporary and he liked being closer to the stairs. Now…?

Now, he’d wake up, curse under his breath, then roll to his feet. He’d pick up the chair and jam it under the doorknob. And then he’d fall back on the bed and jerk off, his face buried in the pillow so he wouldn’t make any noise.

He was never sure how long the situation would have lasted. Probably forever, because the divide within his own soul had grown deep and wide and he couldn’t make himself cross it, couldn’t make himself go around it. In the end it was the puzzle, Castiel, and Dean himself that did the trick.

____________________________

Sam frowned. He’d known something was up when they’d started working the case, known Dean’s cheery facade—_‘Croisscookie. They’re the new cronuts’_—was just that. But still…

Dean shrugged, answering Sam’s insistent, _‘No, I’m not just gonna give up,’ _with, “I need to be the one calling the shots here, okay? I can’t keep waking up every morning with this false hope.”

Sam couldn’t think of a thing to say. Dean’s tone was adamant but filled with an almost zen-like quality.

“I got to know where I stand. Otherwise, I’m gonna lose my freaking mind. So, I’m gonna fight it till I can’t fight it anymore.” Dean nodded. “And when all’s said and done, I’ll go down swinging.” Then he smiled, a serene, accepting smile, and pulled away from the curb.

Sam stared out the window, watching blindly as Spencer, Iowa flew by. He could keep arguing, could keep insisting that Castiel was close to finding Cain and that the way to get rid of the Mark was in sight but they both knew both were a lie.

“You feel like stopping for lunch?”

Sam made himself grin. “You missing those college meals already?”

“Chinese, Italian and fro-yo all in the same meal,” Dean said mournfully. “I’ll be missing them forever.”

Sam’s forced grin softened into the real deal. Recent conversation aside, it had been a good few days. Dean hadn’t fugued out once, they’d saved the digital day, and sent the electronic Andrew Silver to his final rest. “You can go to a restaurant and order the same thing, you know. Better yet…” He shifted. “You could go to college.” Dean rolled his eyes, something Sam was prepared for. “I know you don’t think you’re as smart as me and I’m tired of arguing about it. But I also know that you would kill in the classroom.” He smiled, imagining it, Dean taking down the snot-nosed geniuses. “You’d be another Good Will Hunting.”

“Yeah, well, Good Will Hunting never had a night job that might get him killed.”

“Exactly. Good Will Hunting was smart enough to think beyond the night job. He had a plan.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t your way of telling me you’re looking into colleges again, is it?”

“I—” Sam shook his head, honestly surprised. “No. I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“Hm,” Dean said with an absent shrug. “So who do you think would be a better hunter: Good Will Hunting or Ben Affleck?”

Accepting the change of subject, Sam said Ben Affleck ‘cause Good Will Hunting was just a character. Dean shot back, saying he’d go with Hunting because he threw a mean punch, fake or not. From there the conversation went sideways and moved on to other famous duos. When they stopped at a burger joint, they were still arguing, this time about the fighting styles of Han Solo and Luke Skywalker.

***

Sam closed the car door. The sound echoed in the cavernous garage.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean called out from behind the raised trunk hood. “And then I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Sounds good.” Sam got his duffle bag out of the back seat.

“It’s your turn to make dinner.”

Still thinking about the morning’s conversation, about Dean’s ‘go down swinging’ comment, Sam sighed. He’d thought Dean had gotten past the usual fatalism—looked like he’d been wrong. He’d also been planning on taking his own nap and then taking it easy. Cooking was the last thing he wanted to do. “Sure you want to chance that? I’ll just burn whatever I make.”

“Uh-uh, uh,” Dean said as he closed the hood. “You’re not getting off that easy. There’s a thawed-out steak and those fish sticks you made me buy.”

“All right, but give me a few hours,” he grumbled. And then he raised his voice to add, “But if I have to cook, you have to eat a salad!”

Dean strolled towards the door. “It’s kind of cute you still think that’s a threat.”

“Whatever.” Sam shut the car door with a little too much force.

Upstairs, the library desks were a mess. Sam dropped his backpack on a chair and started to straighten up. Musing on what book he was going to read before he had to start dinner, he was shuffling through the piles of papers and books when he realized he’d jostled the puzzle. The top part had broken apart, separating the zoo from the amusement park.

He bent over to fix the puzzle, not really paying attention to what he was doing and maybe it was preoccupation that focused his mind and he saw what he hadn’t been seeing. He froze and then slowly picked up a piece. It was the section with the panther. “The zoo,” Sam murmured, hands still, mind suddenly racing. “The _zoo_.”

He dropped the puzzle piece and got out his cell, already running for the stairs.

***

“Slow down, Sam,” Castiel urged. “I can’t understand you.”

“Yeah, okay…” Sam said as he paced back and forth in front of the bunker’s entrance. “Okay. It was right there, Cas. Right in front of me the whole time. I mean, yeah, I wasn’t there so I didn’t see any of it but still…” He stopped pacing and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s the spell. It’s Magnus’s _spell_.”

“Magnus’s spell? Who’s Magnus?”

“Did Dean ever tell you how we got the First Blade?”

“Yes,” Castiel murmured. “Cuthbert Sinclair. Dean spoke of the secret lair.”

“Did he actually tell you how he got it?”

“No. He said something to the fact that Sinclair was a creepy douche who had it coming, but that was about it.”

Sam cracked a smile; he could practically hear Dean’s words… “That’s the abbreviated version. What happened was, Magnus cast a spell that enslaved Dean’s spirit or something. Dean was never very clear about it—he didn’t tell me about the spell until later and even then, he just said that Magnus wanted him for his zoo so he put the whammy on him. His _zoo_, Cas. The zoo, the animals, Crowley. Did Dean tell you that it was _Crowley_ that showed us where Magnus’s secret lair was?”

There was a long, long silence and then Castiel said, “No, he didn’t but that would explain his comment about Crowley showing you the way.”

Sam dropped back against the metal rail and tipped his head to the sky. It was almost dark; he needed to get back inside before Dean came looking.

“Sam?”

“I assumed the spell was destroyed when Dean took Magnus’s head. I guess Dean, did too.” Sam said absently. “The spell must have interacted with the Mark and now it’s like, all screwed up.”

“Mixing magic with something as old as the Mark of Cain is a recipe for disaster. Magnus should have known that.”

“Yeah, he should have. He probably didn’t care.”

“You don’t sound worried.”

Sam rocked his head side to side, easing the stiff muscles in his neck. “This may sound strange Cas, but it feels so good to know what’s going on. I’ve been going crazy and it’s been—” He smiled crookedly up at the sky. Crazy. If it was only that.

“Has something else happened?”

Sam lied easily, “No.” Movement caught his attention and he turned his head. A car was coming up the street, driving slowly through the leftover snow. The car’s headlights were on, masking its shape and color.

Castiel sighed. “Withholding information is dangerous, Sam.”

“It’s just more of the same, Cas.” Sam straightened up and went to stand in the middle of the road. They didn’t have visitors, only the occasional lost driver, and very occasionally, Charlie. “You don’t need the details.”

“I’m afraid I disagree and because of that, I’ve taken matters into my own hands.”

The car drew closer and angled to the side. It was the long, gold Caddy. “Cas, what’d you do?”

Castiel didn’t answer because he was too busy parking his car.

Sam ended the call and strode down the road, kicking up snow and ice. “Cas!” he called out, anger making his voice shake. “What did you do?”

“He nipped this in the bud,” came a voice from the bunker’s entrance.

Sam turned on his heel. Dean was climbing the steps in that slow, methodical way that always spelled trouble.

Sam swallowed. “Dean—”

“No,” Dean said with a shake of his head, like a bull about to charge. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited until Castiel had joined them. And then glanced between Sam and Castiel and said with a sweet smile, “So, what clusterfuck of a problem are we dealing with now, fellas?”

***

Dean was silent as they went back into the bunker. He was silent when Sam poured three drinks and they all sat down. He was even silent when Sam recited a synopsis of recent events. The only time he showed any emotion was when Sam told him of the night at the motel: _‘Gotta catch that little bastard and make him show us his animals.’_

“Magnus,” Dean muttered with a rueful, sarcastic shake of his head.

Surprised, Sam asked, “You got it already?”

“Well, yeah. Animals could mean a lot of things but you said, _‘his’ _which implies ownership and then there’s the _‘little bastard.’_ You could be referring to Samuel or Crowley. Samuel was a lot of things but little wasn’t one of them and it’s not like we gotta catch Crowley—all I gotta do is whistle and he comes running.” Dean shrugged. “Which leaves us with Magnus.”

Sam’s mouth had dropped open; he closed it with a snap. “Oh.”

Dean finished off his drink. “I’d like to think this would teach you not to keep secrets from me, but I know it won’t.” He reached for the bottle and poured another finger of whiskey. “Not like I’ve been any better at it so pot and kettle and all that.”

“Oh.”

Dean turned his glass and gave Sam a look from under his eyelashes. “This zoning out—does it happen all the time, like when I’m in the shower?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What about when I’m driving, ‘cause I gotta tell you, it would suck if I’ve gotta stop driving.”

Sam frowned. “No. It happens more when you’re here. At least, so far.”

Dean nodded sedately. “So that’s all? I zombie out for a few minutes and that’s it?”

Sam didn’t look at Castiel when he answered, “Pretty much.”

“Sam,” Castiel murmured in reproof.

Dean bent his lips in a not-smile and took a beat before saying the same thing, “Sam?”

“It’s not—” He couldn’t look at Castiel and he sure as hell couldn’t look at Dean so he dropped his gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“If you don’t tell him, I will,” Castiel said. “He needs to—”

“Jesus, Cas!” Sam gestured and accidentally hit his glass. It flew off the table to land on the floor. By some miracle, it didn’t break. Sam got to his feet and picked it up. “Will you just shut up?” he muttered, mostly to the glass.

Nobody said anything and then Dean sighed. “Cas? Can you give us a moment?”

“Of course.” There was the sound of wood scraping on wood and then footsteps on the metal stairs.

“The only thing I can think,” Dean murmured, “is that I did something so fucking horrible that you can’t even bring yourself to say it. And considering I’ve done some pretty fucking horrible things, it’s gotta be a doozy.” Dean hesitated. “Did I hurt someone, Sammy? Did I hurt you?”

Sam turned. Dean was smiling but it was the smile he presented when he was breaking inside only he didn’t want anyone to know. “No,” Sam said, wishing he didn’t have to go down this road because it was gonna fuck Dean up so much… “You didn’t do anything. You didn’t hurt anyone. It was me.” Feeling like he’d aged fifty years, he went to the table and plopped down. “I mean, it wasn’t me per se but…” He set the glass down and pushed it to the side. “But I think it wa—”

“For the love of—” Dean interrupted as he lifted his glass. “Just spit it out!”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam cleared his throat. “So, during those moments, your zombie moments, sometimes you’d—” He glanced up and then quickly back down. “Sometimes you’d, like, touch me.”

Dean paused, glass to his lips. “I what?”

Sam raised his head. He leaned forward and said as sincerely as possible, “You’re gonna make a big deal out of it but it wasn’t anything. You touched my chest one time, that time in Hibbing. And then you kissed my cheek the night we stayed in that motel before we started the Pendleton job. It wasn’t anything, Dean. I was surprised but not…” He shrugged. “You know.”

Dean was silent for a moment and then asked, his voice as rough as sandpaper, “Did I do anything else?”

“I—” Sam fumbled, trying for the lie that would make it better but he took too long and Dean’s face grew red.

“Did I do anything else, Sam?”

“Dean—”

Always frightening quick, Dean threw his glass and jumped to his feet. With a muffled crack, the tumbler hit one of the cement pillars and shattered in a spray of crystal.

Instinctively, Sam ducked, protecting his face from the glass. With the sound still ringing in his ears, he dropped his arm and raised his head. He was alone.

He raced after, shouting, “Wait!” He caught up with Dean outside the garage and, frantic, he did the one thing he shouldn’t have done—he grabbed Dean’s arm. “Wait, it wasn’t—”

Dean turned and body-slammed Sam into the tile wall. He pulled back and did it again, his arm and shoulder against Sam’s chest, his breath hot on Sam’s cheek. And then he muttered some strangled curse under his breath and shoved away from Sam. Stiff-armed, he punched the garage door open and was gone.

***

Sam didn’t bother chasing the Impala. He sprinted back up to the front entrance, running into Castiel coming through the door. He grabbed Castiel’s lapels. “Did you see him? Did he leave?”

Castiel pulled free of Sam’s grip and then smoothed his trench coat. “He did. I started after him but he was driving too fast. It’s a good thing I parked where I did. I think he would have rammed my car off the road, otherwise.”

Sam held his hand out. “Keys.”

“No.”

Jaw clenched, Sam straightened to his full height and took a step forward. “No?”

“No.” Castiel needed to tilt his head back to look at Sam. “You are not going to follow him. If you told him and he is this angry, you need to give him time. I’ll go. I’ll make sure he comes to no harm.”

Sam balanced his need to follow Dean with his chances at forcing Castiel. After a moment, he stood down and stepped back. “He’s probably gone into Smith Center. There’s a bar on Main that he likes. I’m giving you two hours. If you don’t call by then, I’m coming after him even if I have to hotwire a car.”

“Very well,” Castiel agreed. “Two hours.”

***

It was actually two hours and seventeen minutes before Sam’s cell rang. He was sitting in a wingback chair with his laptop on the side table and his phone tucked in his palm.

He’d been going over the conversation with Dean, what he’d said, what he shouldn’t have said. He’d made a nominal attempt at work but kept spacing out. Finally, he’d given up and was just sitting there, staring at his phone, silently telling it to ring. When the screen lit up, he answered on the first buzz, “Dean?”

“It’s me, Sam,” Castiel said.

“You’re using Dean’s cell so that means you found him.” He could hear background noises of laugher, music and someone shouting.

“Yes. I took his keys away but he wants to call a taxi. He’s very drunk.”

“Is he okay?”

“Sam, how could he possibly be okay?”

Sam leaned over and cradled his head in his hand. “I shouldn’t have told him, Cas. I should have just lied.”

“No, you were ri—”

There was a muffled sound.

“Cas?” Sam said. “You still there?” There was another thud, this one louder. The background noise faded. “Cas?”

“Sam.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his brother’s slurred voice. “Dean. Are you ok—”

“Sam. Sammy… I gotta ask you—”

There was another sound of shouts. The noise cut out and Dean stopped speaking. Sam waited, his heart in his throat, hoping like hell some drunk Kansas asshole wasn’t gonna start something Dean would have to finish. “Dean?” Once more there was a soft sound, and then the softer in and out of Dean’s breathing. “Dean,” Sam said, just as soft.

“I need to— Sam, did I do anything?”

“Like, you mean to me?”

When Dean answered, his voice was so low and garbled that Sam barely understood him, “Did I— Jesus Christ, Sam, did I rape you?”

Sam froze. And then straightened up. “What…? Are you kidding? No, you didn’t— I was trying to tell you, it wasn’t like that. I was the—” He swallowed. “It was me. When you— ” He pressed his hand to his eyes. His eyelids were damp with tears. “It was me, not you.”

His only reply was the sound of Dean’s raspy breath.

“Dean? Dean, don’t do this. Just come home and we can talk about it.” Still no response and he tried again, his own voice weary because he’d fucked this up so bad. “Just come home. Please.”

One more muffled thud and then Castiel came back on, “Sam?”

“Cas? Is he okay?”

“He passed out in the alley behind the bar.”

“Can you get him home?”

“I can. Don’t be surprised when you see him. He got in several fights before I found him.”

***

It was good that Castiel had warned Sam because Dean was a mess. Swollen eyes and cut lips, and an ear that had taken a punch. The Mark, as usual, had kept him alive but hadn’t done much else. With Castiel’s help, Sam lugged Dean to bed and washed him up. When they were done, Sam rolled Dean to his side and turned off the lights.

They went upstairs.

“So, a couple fights,” Sam said. “Are the other guys okay?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel replied. “According to the bartender at the first bar, Dean attacked four men and then another two before the owner kicked him out. He then went to a bar on Fifth Street but the bartender wouldn’t serve him because he was clearly inebriated. He tried to start a fight but was shown the door. I finally found him in the middle of a third fight in a bar in Kensington.”

“Three fights in less than three hours,” Sam said. “That’s a record, even for him.” Dean liked the bar on Main; now he’d have to stay away or take a long sabbatical. “Where’s the car?”

“In Kensington.” Castiel dug something out of his pocket. “Here are the keys.”

Sam took them.

“What are you going to do now?”

He pocketed the keys and then leaned back on the table. “Now? Now, I have no idea. Wait until he comes to and see what he says, I guess.”

“Do you want me to start searching for a witch to remove the spell?”

Sam hadn’t even thought that far along. “I suppose,” he said. “We’ll need to figure out the original spell and then how to break it.”

“Keeping in mind that the Mark might make that impossible,” Castiel added.

He hadn’t thought about that, either, and he smiled wanly. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

“With you two, yes, that often seems the case.”

“Okay. You look for a witch and tomorrow, I’ll start looking through Magnus’s research.”

“You’re not going to start tonight?”

Sam gave Castiel a bleak, stark smile. “No. Tonight I have to see if I can convince my brother to stay.”

***

When he went back downstairs, Dean was still passed out. Sam stood over the bed for a moment, then removed Dean’s boots and socks. He covered Dean with a blanket and returned to the door and leaned against the jamb.

How many times had each of them watched over the other, waiting for the good or the bad? He couldn’t even begin to count. The last time had been his turn, holding vigil the night Dean had woken him with a shouted, _‘Sam? Sam!’ _

Sam had camped out in the chair that night, arms crossed over his chest, nodding off every now and then while he waited for Dean’s next nightmare.

What was Dean dreaming now? Of Sam and his words or the moment before, only hours old, when they weren’t anything but brothers. Sam wished he could go back to that time, just slip back five hours when Dean didn’t know and everything was okay. So, yeah, it would mean the burden of knowledge, of knowing the feeling of Dean’s hand on his dick, of hearing Dean’s little sigh that had mimicked his own. And then, still reeling, still dizzy, the perfection of resting against Dean’s chest in a state of total tranquility. He could’ve lived with that imbalance, of knowing all those things but never having them again. Couldn’t he have?

But fuck it all, just thinking about Dean’s touch made Sam’s mouth water and his dick twitch. So, no use, because he still wanted Dean. He wanted to spread him out on the bed or over a desk and go to town. He wanted to be covered by Dean, pushed into Dean’s memory foam mattress that would remember the imprint of their bodies, would remember all the good stuff and none of the bad.

He’d once accused Dean of being a good little soldier. Of following Dad without question, mindless, without a will of his own. Sam had hated that and tried to live in opposite, tried to live with the consequences of his own open-eyed decisions. And he mostly had, except for one time.

Albuquerque.

Afterwards, he’d never mentioned Albuquerque, never asked Dean what he’d thought, if he’d been ashamed or disgusted. If he’d wanted more. Sam had subsumed it all until there was nothing left but the polished paragon he’d created: Dean’s smart little brother, Sam.

Sam growled, a soft muted protest that sounded cannon-fire loud in the small room. He realized he was hugging his chest and gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He swallowed and then relaxed his jaw, made his arms and shoulders drop. The back of his neck throbbed and he was loosening it up when he saw that Dean was frowning, head turned as if he’d heard Sam’s unspoken confession. But then Dean rolled to his other side and shoved his arm under the pillow. He started to snore.

Lulled by the familiar sound, wondering if it would be better to wait by the bed or out in the hall, Sam went to the chair, dropped in it and fell asleep, too.

***

Sam woke by the sound of a thump and a muttered curse. He sat up straight and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The room was dark enough that he could barely make out the shape by the bathroom door. “Dean?”

The shape stilled. “Go away.”

“Yeah, I will, but I wanted to make sure you—”

“Sam, go.”

Sam placed his hands on his thighs. “I’d give anything to have just lied to you, Dean. But I didn’t so now I gotta know—do you want me to go away for good?”

“What’d’you mean?”

“I mean if this is gonna be something we can’t get around or over, I’m leaving.” He hadn’t planned anything of the sort but once the words were out, they felt right and true. If Dean couldn’t get over the wall of his own shame, it was better he stay in the bunker than be out there, hurting himself and others.

“Where will you go?”

_‘Will,’ _not _‘would’_—so, not good. “I don’t know. Someplace close in case you need me. Where I can help figure out how to remove Magnus’s spell and the Mark.” Dean turned his head and Sam could just make out the line of his nose and the curve of his chin. “Do you want me to leave?”

Twenty-four hours ago if he’d asked the same question, there’d be no pause, no hesitation, and it sort of said everything when Dean reached for the doorjamb and didn’t answer.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam stood up. “I’m gonna give us a breather. Maybe go hunt for a few days or something. I read a report about a couple murders in Crestone, Montana. It sounds run-of-the-mill so I’m thinking a crime of passion or something like that.” Another lie—the report called the incident ‘vicious’ and the hiker that had come across the bodies had been hysterical to the point of incoherence. “I’ll call if it turns out to be anything more.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Take the car. You might need the weapons.”

“I’m not taking your car, Dean.”

“It’s as much yours as it is mine, Sam. Take it.”

Sam could argue, he could insist, but he suddenly needed to get away from Dean as much as Dean needed him gone. So he nodded. And then he nodded again, feeling the weight of the moment. He’d been in situations like this, thinking they’d have a short lifespan only to find out they were etched-in-stone permanent. It was important not to make the situation worse, to take it one day at a time. “I’ll ask Cas to look in on you.”

Dean didn’t scoff or complain like he normally would—he just shrugged.

“See you when I see you.” Sam turned to go and then stopped. Same as before, he knew a stupid move when he was about to make it but he couldn’t _not_… “I know this won’t convince you of anything and maybe you won’t believe it anyway but, I’m six-four, Dean, and I’m strong. I could have stopped you at any point. I didn’t.”

He left before he could make it worse, striding from the room to get his gear.

***

Contrary to pretty much everything Sam would have expected, the trip north and then west to Crestone was peaceful and relaxing.

He caught a ride to Kensington and arrived just before midnight. It wasn’t hard to find the Impala—Kensington only had one bar. Dean had parked across three spaces and Sam did a quick inspection, hoping that no one had kicked or hit the Impala because of Dean’s dick move. The light was bad but he thought the car was okay. He got in and started her up.

According to Google, the drive should take about twenty hours to get to Kalispell and then another hour to get to Crestone. He mentally shrugged because he could do twenty hours, no problem. He could do forty, because he was at peace and he was relaxed.

He told himself that more than a few times as night turned to day and he was almost to Billings when he was jumped by a fragment memory, that of Dean and him hunting a vampire in nearby Roundup. The vamp was living on the outskirts of town and had been picking off the residents one by one. It had been touch-and-go because while the vamp had been killing, he’d also been making children. Dean had just dispatched dad when the kids started to wake up. By the time the deed was done, Dean and Sam had killed five farmers and one grease monkey. They’d buried the dead and then drove to Billings to celebrate with steak and beer.

Just that snippet of recollection, the memory of Dean’s bright smile as he laughed at Sam’s skeptical, _‘You’re not gonna eat that whole thing, are you?’ _made Sam’s chest hurt. Suddenly tired and in no mood for driving anymore, he found a motel in Hardin, matched ID to credit card, and got a room. He slept surprisingly deep that night, waking once around two, thinking he’d heard Dean call his name.

***

“Like I told you, Agent Clemons, it was a wild animal, maybe a bear or badger. A human being didn’t make those bite marks.”

“And the other victims?” Sam glanced over the coroner’s report once more. There were more details missing than listed. “The ones you already sent to the mortuary?”

“There was a lot less on them.” The sheriff looked over her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Sitting behind his desk in the corner of the room, the coroner grunted but didn’t look up from his ancient computer.

“Yep,” the sheriff nodded sedately. “Those two were nothing more than skin and bone. Literally.”

Sheriff Dory Finnen of Crestone was a fifty-something woman with blue eyes and short grey hair that had once been blond, if the portrait on her office wall was anything to go by. She had a calm, no-nonsense way about her that seemed unique to small town law enforcement. Sam had known her for less than twenty-four hours but he felt comfortable with her, the same as he did with Jody or even Donna.

As it inevitably had to, thoughts of Jody and Donna led to thoughts of Dean but Sam ignored them as he’d been doing all day. He had a job to do and needed to concentrate. “And you found this body tucked under a fallen tree near Wolf Lake but the others were _in _the trees?”

Sheriff Finnen hooked her thumbs in her belt. “I know what you’re going to say: yes, they were cached in the crooks of the branches just like a mountain lion would do.”

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “I was going to say that.”

“Bend closer.”

Sam glanced up. “Pardon me?”

The sheriff nodded again. “Bend closer and sniff, Agent Clemons.”

Cautiously, because the sheriff’s request was a little out there, Sam gave the sheriff the clipboard, then bent closer. The body, or what was left of it, smelled of blood, decaying flesh and something like… “Is that perfume?”

“Shalimar. Or a knock-off version.”

Sam frowned. “Shalimar?” The vic was twenty-three and definitely male. Not that that meant anything—the victim’s girlfriend could have used the perfume, or _he _could have. Stranger things had happened. “You sure?”

Over in his corner, the corner snorted again as if making a point. The sheriff glanced at him but just said, “Sure as shootin’. I’ve got some in my drawer back home. I bring it out every Saturday night when I step out with my gal pals.” She winked at Sam. “We’re gonna be at the Soak ‘n Suds tonight if you’re interested.”

“I—” Sam said, then did a virtual double take. “The Soak ‘n Suds?”

“Yep,” the sheriff said with great satisfaction. “It’s a combination spa and beer joint.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster to me.”

“Well, we don’t go there for the soak, if you get my drift.” The sheriff winked once more.

“I— Yes, I guess I do.” Sam smiled and felt his face warm. Generally, when this kind of thing happened, Dean was around to run interference. “But I’ll probably be working tonight, since it’s just me.”

“That partner of yours better appreciate your dedication. It’s not too many that would keep on keepin’ on when their better half is laid up with the flu.”

Sam’s grin was halfhearted because the tangled lie had been his fault. When Sheriff Finnen had introduced herself at the crime scene, Sam was in the middle of examining the area, shocked by the amount of blood still drenching the snow. Wondering what the hell could have drained that much blood without leaving a trace, he’d made some offhand comment about his partner, too late remembering that he had no partner. The story of the flu had been a stumbling result; in hindsight he should have just shut up but by then, it had been too late. “I’m pretty sure he does, but I’ll tell him you said so.”

The sheriff took a breath to answer only to pause, her attention drawn to the door.

Sam turned as well. His heart jerked and he swallowed, dully surprised and _not_ surprised to find Dean standing in the doorway. Unshaven, eyes narrowed against the bright light, Dean looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Hopefully, the sheriff would read it as the consequences of being sick and not hung over. “Hey.”

Dean gave Sam a lightning quick glance, then pasted on a false, slick smile and got out his fake ID. “Sheriff Finnen? I’m Agent Hudson and I’m here—”

“You’re here to make up for being out sick,” the sheriff said. “Agent Clemons told me all about it.” She gave Dean the up and down. “You look pretty fine to me.”

“Yes, well, the flu is like that,” Sam said before Dean could speak. “One minute you’re feeling good, the next…” He smiled. Oddly enough, he was shaking, just a little. Maybe he was the one coming down with the flu. “I was just heading out to the crime scene to see if I missed anything.”

Dean shot Sam another glance but didn’t say anything.

“Jack?” The sheriff said to the coroner. “We’re done here.” She gestured and then led them out into the hall, adding, “I’d be careful out there. It’ll be dark in an hour and that far into the forest, there’s precious little cell service. If it’s a bear, it might come back to finish what it started.”

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” Dean said, his smile still not matching his gaze. “We won’t take any chances.”

“Good.” The sheriff paused at the door to the bullpen and looked up at Sam. “And don’t you forget about the Soak ‘n Suds, Agent Clemons. Eight o’clock sharp. Bring your Speedo.”

Too conscious of Dean’s sudden interest in the opposite wall, Sam said, “I won’t but don’t count on it. Business before pleasure and all that.”

Finnen raised an eyebrow and didn’t answer.

***

The sun, as the sheriff had said, was on its way down and only a few people were about. Sam had parked out in front of what passed for City Hall. Behind the Impala was a rust-colored Jeep Cherokee. He stopped and nodded at the car. “That one yours?”

“Yeah.” Dean put on his sunglasses. “Found it in Red Cloud. I think the fuel pump is about to go.”

“That’s not good.” The shaky feeling had settled, curling in his stomach, coloring his vision and muting the day’s normal sounds.

“So, rugaru or werewolf, and don’t lie because that was no…” Dean used air quotes. “‘Crime of passion.’”

“Yeah.” Across the street, a woman was walking hand-in-hand with a little girl. The girl kept trying to tug free, making the woman laugh each time. “It’s not.”

“And you figured I’d worry if I knew what it really was.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Jesus.”

“You needed me gone, Dean, so I went.” Side by side, they were both turned to the street. They must look so stupid, talking to each other but not facing each other.

Dean put his hands in his pockets; he didn’t argue, he just muttered, “Whatever.” He glanced up the street and then back down. “So what did you find?”

On the safe ground of work, Sam drew a deep breath. “All right. There are three vics, so far. Two had been stowed away in trees, the last was tucked under a fallen tree. The bodies were eaten, mostly the soft tissue but some of the bones had gnaw marks on them. The latest was the most intact, but I haven’t seen the others. They’re already cremated. The coroner estimates that each kill happened about a week apart. And,” Sam gave Dean a sideways glance, “the sheriff wasn’t exaggerating. Wolf Lake is about fifteen miles east of here and it’s rough terrain. It took me an hour to get out there yesterday afternoon. It might take longer at night.”

“Any tracks to follow?”

Sam shook his head and began walking to the car again. He felt almost normal, now. “No footprints, paw prints or boot prints. The sheriff insists it’s an animal but what kind of animal leaves no sign or spoor of any kind?”

“Maybe the bodies were carried from tree to tree like one of Dick the Douche Roman’s freaks.”

“Or the northwestern version of the Jersey Devil?”

“Maybe.”

“A body is heavy. It would be hard to port it from tree to tree.”

“Maybe it wasn’t heavy when whatever it is carried them up there. Maybe chowed down and then cached it.”

“Maybe. The sheriff gave me a map of five cabins within a sixteen-mile radius of the lake. I was gonna check them out after dinner.”

“Why not now?”

“Because the sheriff thinks it’s a night hunter. The coroner put the time of death on the last body between nine in the evening and two in the morning.”

“So you wanted to see if you could catch it in the act, all by yourself.”

“Yeah.”

Dean pressed his lips together but only said, “You mean you’re not gonna party with the sheriff and her _gal_ pals?”

Sam glanced at Dean. If Dean knew about the sheriff’s comment, it meant he’d been listening outside in the hall, which meant…

Which meant nothing, really, and after a moment, he just forced a grin and said, “Can’t. Didn’t bring my Speedo.”

Dean shook his head and muttered, “So now what?”

“So now we kill a few hours.”

***

Without discussing it, Sam drove them to the restaurant on 5th. It was a calculated risk—if they ate together, no doubt they’d sit opposite each other and he wasn’t sure either of them wanted that. But Dean didn’t say anything as he took a seat nearest the window and picked up a menu.

“The buffalo burger is good,” Sam said, using the menu as a literal shield.

“You been here already?”

“Yeah, yesterday. After we got back from the site, Sheriff Finnen took me out to dinner.”

“Hm.”

Sam glanced over the rim of the menu. They were only four feet apart; this close he could see that Dean’s eyes were red and there were lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there the week before. The cuts and bruises from the three fights were fading but not gone. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” Dean set the menu down and looked out the window. “Just ‘hm.’”

“She’s nice. And she’s smart.”

“That’s good.”

“She’s the one that found the third body.”

“Would’ve thought the dogs would’ve found it first.” Dean’s gaze flickered, just a swift touch towards Sam and then was gone again. “I’m assuming they used dogs.”

“They did. The dogs, according to Dory, weren’t any help. When they got to the scene, they just milled about like they were confused.”

Dean hmphed. “Dory. We’re working with fish now?”

It was right there on the tip of Sam’s tongue, the question,_ ‘Can we really do this?’_ because never mind the belligerence, Dean could barely look at him.

Luckily, or unluckily as the case might be, the waitress came by just then with her order pad and a smile.

***

As if they were strangers, they ate their meal in silence. When Dean was done, he wiped his mouth and got up, leaving Sam to pay. In mute retaliation and growing anger, Sam paid but didn’t hand Dean the keys when he got to the car. He just went to the driver’s side and got in. After a hesitation that Sam didn’t miss, Dean got in, too.

***

Sam drove to his motel first, saying nothing as he went inside to change his clothes. He came back out, feeling as if he were himself again in jeans, flannel and boots. Dean was leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed.

“Your room have a mini bar?” Dean asked, once more avoiding Sam’s eye.

“Oh,” Sam said, and he should have thought about it, that Dean wouldn’t have checked into a motel yet. “No, it doesn’t.” He hooked his finger in the key ring. “There are a couple other places near the highway. I can drop you off later, if you want.”

Dean tipped his head to examine the motel sign. “Nah, this is good. They have a vacancy.”

“Okay.” Sam hunched his shoulders. “You wanna go get your stuff?”

“Yeah.”

***

By the time Dean had gotten a room and changed out of his suit, it was full dark. Sam waited in the Impala and studied the locations Sheriff Finnen had given him. Most of the cabins were near the lake; one was about a mile away. When Dean returned with his duffle bag in hand, Sam showed him.

“We could be looking at a water monster,” Sam said.

“It’s the middle of winter?” Dean shot back. “If it’s a water monster, it’s a _frozen_ water monster.”

Sam counted to three, then folded the map. “Dean.”

Dean curled his lip and answered, “Whatever.”

***

The drive to Wolf Lake was mostly quiet. Sam made stilted conversation but gave up after Dean’s fourth, _‘Whatever.’ _By the time they got to Horse Ridge Road a little after five-thirty, neither was speaking and the air between them was thick with tension.

The first cabin was a bust. It was the one furthest from the lake, and was dark and cold. Clearly used for hunting, there was a smokehouse and drying rack off to the side and a pile of deer antlers on the porch. Dean broke in and they looked around, finding no scent of blood and no prints of any kind.

The second cabin was next to the lake. It was in use and Sam and Dean sat in the car and watched the family play a board game at the kitchen table.

“What kind of idiots vacation in the middle of winter by a frozen lake?” Dean grumbled after ten minutes or so of surveillance.

“The kind that like being with each other.” Sam gave Dean the binoculars. “And the lake’s not frozen.” He’d been wanting to rub that in since they’d first arrived. The shore was rimmed by ice and not a lot else. “Want to try the next place?”

Dean handed the binoculars back. “Might as well.”

***

The third was equally nothing but the fourth…

“Do you smell that?” Dean asked, his breath coming white.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. A person would have to have a serious cold not to smell the rank, old-blood stench that came from inside the cabin. He edged up to the window and peered inside. There wasn’t much to see, just a lot of black and what looked like an old-fashioned wardrobe. “This might the place.”

“You see any tracks because I don’t see any tracks.”

Sam scanned the porch. “I don’t either. Maybe it’s using the attic window?”

“And maybe there’s a door on the other side.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“No, I’ll go. Give me sixty seconds. I’ll signal when to come in. Don’t blind me with your flashlight.”

Sam nodded.

Dean left, gun raised, moving in that smooth hunter’s stride of his.

Sam raised his own gun. Pulse pounding, he waited. And then waited some more, anxiety rising. He was getting ready to go in when he heard a series of shots, then a crash and a loud, _“Sam!” _

Sam rammed the door but it didn’t budge so he did the next best thing—he kicked a hole in the old wood and unlatched it from the inside. He sidled in, taking in the scene as if seeing it in bursts: the flashlight rolling on the floor where Dean had dropped it. Dean up against the wall in an effort to dislodge whatever it was that was wrapped around him. The shadow of something breaking the flashlight’s broad beam…

“Sam!” Dean shouted. “Up!”

Sam jerked his head up in time to see a figure leap down from the rafters. It landed on him, sending him to the floor. Snapping its jaws, trying for his neck, he struggled to find purchase, only then realizing that the thing was naked. He grunted, then grabbed the thing’s shoulder and pushed it off with a shout. It landed in the corner of the room and was already spinning around when Sam raised his gun and fired. His first shot missed but his second and third got the thing clean in the chest. It slumped against the wall and chittered low in its throat.

One eye still on the creature, Sam rolled to his feet and tucked his gun in his jeans. In two long steps he had hold of the thing that was on Dean. It was like grabbing a greased pig. A greased pig that made the same noise as the other had, an almost sub audial click of its fangs that shouldn’t have been horrifying but was.

“Sam!”

“Yeah,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Gotta—” He fisted the creature’s filthy hair, then heaved and pulled, stumbling back to give Dean a chance.

With a grunt, Dean followed, smoothly stabbing the creature with his Bowie. The creature shrieked and then whined. A river of blood and gore covering his fist, Dean pushed harder, shoving the knife up under the monster’s breastbone. With an almost peaceful sigh, the creature stopped breathing and collapsed.

Sam stepped back and let the body fall. He fumbled for his flashlight. “You okay?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. What about yours?”

“Dead.”

Dean wiped his face, grimacing at the muck on his hand. “One of these days, I’m gonna come across a monster that’s contagious and I’m gonna be screwed.”

“Yeah.” Dean was less than a foot away. If Sam wanted to, he could reach over the bloody corpse and… He cleared his throat and then crouched. He nudged the creature’s lax jaw with his gun. “What do you think it is?”

Dean picked up his flashlight, then crouched, too. “Whatever it was, this was the mom and that was the kid.”

Sam nodded. The creature he’d killed was male and clearly younger. The one Dean had taken care of was older with small breasts, long hair and sharp fingernails at least an inch long. He bent closer and muttered, “Shalimar.”

“The porn star?’

Sam rolled his eyes and then cracked a smile because Dean’s response was so very Dean. “No, not the porn star, the perfume. The mom must have found it on a vic or something.”

Dean rose and pointed his flashlight around the cabin. He paused, and then nodded. “Over there.”

Sam got up and went to look. The cabin was dusty, empty of everything except the wardrobe and—as it turned out—a tall pile of bones. “Human and animal,” he said. “They’ve been squatting here.” He looked around. “Where’s dad?”

“He’s out in back. Mom and pops attacked me when I opened the back door. That’s how I lost my gun.” Dean opened the wardrobe. Unlike the rest of the cabin, the interior was clean and neat. A row of clothes hung on coat hangers. “You think there are any more out here?”

As soon as Dean had opened the wardrobe, the scent of perfume had grown stronger. “I don’t know.” Sam went to stand by Dean’s side. He touched a dress; the flimsy fabric was torn here and there. The other dresses were torn, too. He pictured it, the mom examining the dresses but delicately so she wouldn’t damage them too much. It was so sad. “We should tell the Sheriff to be on the lookout, just in case. Once she sees the bodies, she’ll realize it’s not a bear or wolverine.”

“You wanna tell that family by the lake that they were lucky we came along?”

Sam closed the wardrobe. “No. They’re safe. They don’t need to know.”

“I guess.” Dean pointed to Sam’s wrist. “It got you. Better take care of it.”

Sam nodded, only then feeling the sting of the shallow cuts. “Let’s go.”

***

Saying that it would just be easier, Dean insisted on cleaning and bandaging Sam’s wounds.

They discussed the hunt as Dean washed his hands and disinfected the long cuts that curved around Sam’s wrist.

Sam did his best to keep his voice level as Dean worked because this was nothing—they’d taken care of each other countless times before and it meant nothing. “So, you don’t want to call the county?”

“No,” Dean said. “We do that, and we’ll be in their official report. When we get back to town, just tell Sheriff Fish that we couldn’t get a signal.”

It was weird, standing by the car, watching Dean work. Barring those few arguments, the hunt had gone like clockwork. Maybe that’s all they needed, a day or so and then the normalcy of everyday work. “All right.”

“There.” Dean tucked the gauze under a fold and then put the bandages and alcohol back in the first-aid kit. “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Sam thought about it. “I don’t know. The same time you did?”

Dean stowed the kit in the corner of the Impala’s trunk, right next to the container of holy water. “That time at Bobby’s? That was like, ten years ago.”

“Yeah, but then there was that time in the hospital. When I was committed after that car hit me.”

Dean paused and then nodded. “Yeah. Forgot about that.” He straightened up and closed the trunk. “You’ve been through the wringer, all right.”

Sam frowned. “We both have.” Dean didn’t answer and Sam reached out, saying, “Dean, we both have.”

One more mistake because Dean practically jumped back from Sam’s touch and then tried to cover it up by wiping his hands on his jeans. “C’mon. I need a shower.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam said, feeling sick to his stomach. “You wanna drive?”

“Nah, you got it.”

***

If the drive to the lake was uncomfortable, the drive back was worse. Dean leaned against the car door, about as far from Sam as he could. Sam didn’t bother with small talk. Instead he rehearsed the lines he was obviously gonna need. The, _‘Look, it’s not working. I’ll move out for a few months and we’ll see how that goes,’ _and the, _‘I told you it wasn’t you,’ _and the most bitter, _‘So now you can touch me but I can’t touch _you_?’_

When they pulled into the motel’s parking lot, Dean had the door open before Sam turned off the engine. With a muttered, “See you in the morning,” he slammed the door shut and then strode off towards his room.

“You forgot your gear,” Sam said even though Dean was too far away to hear. He sighed and added, “Screw it,” because not only were things between them were still seriously fucked, but now he was talking to himself. He got out the car, picked up Dean’s bag as well as his own, and went to his room.

***

Sam called the sheriff and told her about the incident, then stripped off his bloody clothes and stuffed them in a garbage bag. He showered, taking longer than usual. Like other motel bathtubs, the shower wasn’t built for people his height and he had to hunch over to rinse his hair. But it felt good, just letting the warm water flow over his shoulders and back and he stayed there until the water cooled.

Normally, Sam liked to record the details of a hunt as soon as he had the chance but tonight he was restless, not in the mood for ‘normal.’ He went to the window and looked out. It was only eight-thirty but it seemed as if his temporary neighbors were the early-to-bed-early-to-rise type because the lot was full. He let the curtain drop and then sat on the bed and picked up the remote.

Sam watched _Mama’s Family _for a while before getting bored. Thinking there might be a new case, one far from Kansas, he got out his laptop. The motel’s internet crapped out as soon as he opened Chrome so he closed the laptop again.

Pressure building inside his chest, he put the computer away and went to the window again. This time, half the parking lot was empty. Calling it a sign, he muttered, “All right,” and got his jacket.

***

The Soak ‘n Suds was out near the highway and very popular—the lot was completely full and Sam had to park in the unpaved area around the back of the building.

He hadn’t gotten four steps past the door when he heard a loud, “Agent Clemons! Sam!” It was Sheriff Finnen. She was sitting at round table off to the side with a group of women. They hooted as soon as he waved and he wondered what he’d gotten himself in.

“Here’s our hero,” the sheriff said after Sam had squeezed in between her and a short brunette that reminded him of Ruby. “Ladies, this is the man that took care of our bear problem. Sam works for the FBI.”

The ladies responded with whistles and coos. Behind his helpless grin, Sam raised an eyebrow at Finnen, asking a silent question.

Finnen’s smile dimmed and she shook her head, just a slight back and forth.

So, the official story would be an out-of-control animal. It was just as well—if civilians knew what was out there… “Did you just come from the scene?” he asked Finnen.

“No. We’re gonna need more light to see what’s what. I’ll go back up tomorrow.”

“I can go with you if you want,” Sam offered.

Finnen’s smile recharged. “As much as I appreciate that, we can handle the mop up. I’m sure you and that partner of yours need to be on to bigger and better.”

Unable to say anything else, Sam looked around the table and said, “What are you all drinking?” He got a chorus of replies and some raised glasses.

Finnen pushed a bottle his way. “Try this. It’s local and good and yes…” She pressed her shoulder against his. “I just opened it so you won’t get any cooties.”

Sam grinned and then took a sip because he had to—they were all watching. “It’s good,” he said after a moment, not lying because it was. “So, do you all work at the sheriff’s department?”

That got another chorus of answers and he settled back in his chair and let himself be diverted by regular life with regular people.

***

“And you really said that? _‘Make my day?’_” Sam asked around his third beer.

The woman, a dispatcher by the name of Wendy, snorted and shook her head. “To my everlasting shame, I did. And these jokers have never let me forget it.” Her friends laughed.

“What about you?” Dory asked. “You say anything stupid in the heat of the moment?”

Sam grinned and shook his head. “Sometimes I think that’s all I do say—stupid stuff that only sounds stupid once I’ve said it.”

Dory scrunched up her nose and patted his arm. “We’ve all been there, sweetie. I should have a medal for all the times I let my mouth get the better of me. I had a pretty nasty temper when I was young.”

“What happened?”

Dory smiled. “Do you mean how did I come to be such an easy going, chill individual?”

The woman named Lisa or maybe it was Liza, laughed as Sam nodded.

“Well,” Dory said, thinking about it for a moment. “My first marriage made my temper worse but my second straightened me out.” She laughed and so did some of the other women. “So to speak.”

“You mean…” Sam asked, looking around the table. Lisa or Liza raised her hand, showing Sam her ring. “Oh.” He fiddled with his empty beer bottle. “Have you been married long?”

“A year come May,” Dory answered for Lisa or Liza while giving Sam a pointed smile. “It can be rough, here in this backwater, but most don’t care.”

Sam knew what she was leading up to—he’d been there so many times before. The thing was, Dory hadn’t worked with _them _them. She’d just worked with _him_. Did he give off a vibe or something? Did Dean? “That’s nice.”

“It—” Dory broke off and craned her head towards the door. “Well look who just strolled in. That boy does not look happy.”

Knowing who he’d find, he turned as well. Dean was standing by the bar, glaring in general but mostly at Sam. “Yeah, he doesn’t, does he?”

“You want to ask him to join us?” Dory said.

“No,” Sam turned back around and pushed his chair back. “After a …” He started to say _‘hunt.’_ “After an incident like the one tonight, he needs to wind down.”

Dory nodded. “Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble while he’s winding. I’d hate to throw him into jail after what you two did for us.”

“I will.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Wendy said, giving Dean the thrice over. “He’s gorgeous.”

Sam was thinking about pointless denials when he remembered. The realization dissolved his beer buzz with a cool rush that felt like shock. But he made himself smile as he stood up and reached for his wallet. “Ladies, thanks for everything. How much do I owe you?”

Dory waved his wallet away. “We should be paying you, Sam. I’ve got some townspeople that will be sleeping better tonight because of you.”

“Then…” With a smile, Sam shook Dory’s hand and got his jacket. “It was a pleasure.”

Feeling their eyes track him, Sam edged around the table and then another. When he got to Dean, Dean just pressed his lips together and turned to the door.

***

The night was cold and bracing. Sam pulled on his jacket. “What’s up?”

Dean stopped, cocked his head, and then started walking again.

“I’m in back,” Sam added.

Dean altered his route, rounding the corner of the building.

“How did you get here?” Sam couldn’t see the rust-colored Cherokee.

Dead didn’t answer.

“Okay,” Sam muttered.

“How many?” Dean asked as they approached the Impala.

“Three.”

Without turning around, Dean held out his hand.

Sam sighed but dropped the keys in Dean’s palm. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You just left a bar after drinking with a bunch of cops. Do you really want them to see you driving right now?”

“Like they’re even watching.”

It was a childish response and he wasn’t surprised when Dean growled, “Get in the car.”

Sam had barely shut the door when Dean started up, driving through the lot with a little too much speed. When he reached the road, he turned right instead of left.

“The motel is back that way.”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Dean? Where’re we going?”

Dean slammed on the brakes so hard the car shimmied and swerved. He was silent for a moment, gripping the wheel like he wanted to wrench it free of the housing. And then he growled, “We need to talk and we can’t do it back there.” He tightened his fists; the steering wheel squeaked. “Okay?”

_‘Back there,’_ was the motel room with only three pieces of furniture—a dresser, a nightstand and a big bed. Sam cleared his throat. It would be better to have this out in some neutral place and not in the car that had seen the best and worst of them. It would be better to just end it now. But the familiar rumble of the engine called and enticed, as did the long stretch of black road. And he was the one that wanted to talk it out, right? So he just nodded and said, “Yeah, okay.”

***

Dean drove. On the flat-surfaced road that was bordered by silhouetted trees and nothing else. First north and then east until they were climbing into the mountains.

They were still on the incline when the road curved to the left, traversing along the side of the mountain and not straight up. Space opened up, giving way to a valley and dark sky.

Dean slowed and then pulled into a wide turn-out on the right, inching over the rutted mud until the car was facing the road. He cut the engine.

Without the Impala’s obscuring headlights, the night revealed itself. Across the road was a narrow valley; beyond that was the ghost of flat-headed mountain. The turn-out probably started out as just that, a place for cars to pass each other. Now, it was more than that. The ground was deeply rutted and there was a trash can off to the side. Kids probably used it to make-out or maybe hunters—the real kind—used it as a starting off point.

Bobby had spoken of a place nearby, a spot where he’d taken a vampire’s head and then stayed to camp because the hunting was so good.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam hadn’t realized he’d made a sound. “I was thinking about the story Bobby told us about being out here when he—”

“Hunted and then hunted,” Dean interrupted with a bend of his lips. “You think that was true?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I always assumed it was. Bobby wasn’t a liar.”

“Yeah.”

There was another silence, long enough for the restlessness to return and Sam rehearsed the lines he would need so they could be done with whatever this was.

Before he could, though, Dean spoke: “Did I zone out today?”

“What?” Between all that had been going on, Sam had forgotten. He’d completely forgotten and he turned to face Dean. “No. Not once.”

Dean sighed, a deep, ragged breath. “Good.”

“Is that why you haven’t been sleeping? Because you’ve been worrying about it?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “You lay this crap on me, Sam, telling me I’ve been freaking out and… And all that, and you expect me _not_ to worry about it? Are you _kidding_ me?”

Dean’s voice had risen and Sam held his hand up. “No, I get it. I just thought that…” He trailed off, not sure how to say the next part.

“You thought I could hear that I’ve been sleepwalking and fucking touching you, and I’d be okay?” Dean shook his head and gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I’m peachy.”

“I didn’t think that. That you’d be fine with it,” Sam said quietly. “I didn’t want to tell you, remember?”

“And then there’s that—” Stiffly, Dean turned to look at Sam. “You were gonna go to your grave with this between us? You were never gonna tell me?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

“Jesus, Sam…”

“I just thought, if it splits us up, that would be worse.”

“Worse?” Dean thought about that, frowning. “How is that worse?”

“Because then we’d have to hunt on our own or pair up with someone else. I don’t want that.”

“You sure have changed your tune,” Dean muttered under his breath. “All those plans you made to have a normal life? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about those.”

“I haven’t. It just took me a while to realize my normal is life with you.”

It was somehow the wrong thing to say because Dean swore under his breath and wrenched the door open. He got out and stomped towards the road.

Sam followed across the snow-packed, grooved earth, stopping when Dean stopped. The ground was icy hard under his boots and the cold air smelled of pine. “What?” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Dean turned.

There was enough light to read Dean’s expression: anger, confusion and a weary kind of sadness.

“What?” Sam said again, this time much softer because the dark was pressing down, adding an intimate weight to an already heavy situation.

“You wanted out.”

“I know.”

“You found something you’d never had before and you wanted out—those were your exact words.”

“That was years ago. I’ve changed.”

“And a year ago,” Dean added as if Sam hadn’t spoken, “you told me you didn’t trust me. You told me I was the reason everything goes wrong.”

It took a second for Sam to get what Dean was saying and his own anger rose. “That’s not what I said. I said—” He shook his head because that moment was long gone and he could no longer feel the truth that had turned out to be a lie.

“Yeah,” Dean said with a slow nod. “You tell me you can’t trust me. You tell me that family means nothing, that everything we ever had was wrong and you wonder why I’m freaking out?”

“I fucked up, Dean. You hurt me, really bad, and I wanted to hurt you, too.”

“As only you can.” Dean shoved his hands in his coat pockets and said to the ground, “No one can hurt me like you can, Sam, and I can’t—” He shook his head, like he was trying to shake off a sudden pain.

Sam hesitated. He could feel it, the leaden certainty that was making its way through his soul. He’d been avoiding it for so long, this stark knowledge. Hell, he’d actually _run _from it and here it was…

All the strength of his mistakes, his sins and screw-ups, they were nothing compared to the urge now crawling up his throat and he wondered if this was what murderers felt, this need to reveal. If he said the wrong words, though, it could be the final blow that would separate him and Dean forever. But if he said nothing, if he _did _nothing…

If, if, _if…_

He was so tired of hiding from Dean, so tired of hiding from his own self. It was messing him up and it had to stop. He toed a rut of snowy mud with his boot and murmured, “Have you ever asked yourself why?”

“Have I ever asked myself why what?”

“Why just a few words from me hurt like that. Why it’s the same for me.” Sam moved closer. “Why me being gone sends you into a tailspin. Why seeing you die and holding your cold body made me do such fucking awf—” It was hard to breathe and Sam sucked in the chilly air. It didn’t help; it made everything worse, made the world twist and turn and roar in his ears. “Why I can’t think of anything but getting rid of the Mark. Why knowing about Benny made me feel sick, like I was being ripped apart from the inside out? Why it _still _does?” Dean slowly raised his head. “It was just you and me forever and then—”

“Albuquerque,” Dean said after a heartbeat moment, his voice like ash.

“Yeah, Albuquerque.”

“You never said anything. I mean, after.”

“I know.” Sam swallowed; it hurt. “I was terrified. And ashamed. And then I left.”

“And met Jess a year later.”

“Yeah.”

Neither spoke. If this were a movie or a book, something would break the stalemate, something would send them off in different directions or push them closer together. But this wasn’t a movie or a book—it was their life and their life was so fucked up…

Sam tipped his head to the sky. The stars were like a net of tangled lights, dense and oppressive and beautiful, all at the same time.

“So you weren’t lying?” Dean asked.

When Sam was thirteen or so he’d read about interplanetary travel from a book he stolen from the library in De Beque. He’d been holed up in a motel, waiting Dean and Dad to come back from a hunt. Bored but worried because they’d been gone three days instead of two, he’d finished the book and gone outside. The book said you needed as much darkness as possible to really see the stars so he’d made his way around to the back of the motel to get away from the street lights. There was a broken bench at the edge of the parking lot and he’d sat on the unbroken side and stared up. The book had also said that if he wanted to get to the nearest star and if he used the fastest spaceship, it would take him something like eighty thousand years. When he returned—if he _could _return—everyone he loved would have long turned to dust and it had struck him then that ‘everyone’ was singular, ‘everyone’ was one person, one older brother.

Now with Dean only a few feet away, Sam remembered that epiphany, that flinty, almost atavistic knowledge that no one in the world mattered like Dean mattered. No one ever would. They were their own solar system, two planets forever orbiting the other, circling and circling, unable to break free. It was horrifying. It was glorious. “Was I lying about what?” he murmured.

“That I didn’t rape you.”

He bent his lips to the unchanging stars. Eighty thousand years from now, nothing he had ever done, nothing he would ever _do_, would matter. “No.” One sideways glance at Dean because what the hell—in for a penny and all that crap. “I wanted it. I wanted you. It was just a hand job and I like I said, I could have stopped it.”

Whatever Dean was thinking or feeling didn’t make it to his face. He stood there like a statue.

Sam waited until the moment stretched and broke. “Yeah, okay.” It was almost funny—he’d played his hand and lost and now there was nothing for it but to move on. “Can you give me a ride back to town? We can trade cars at the hotel. I’ll take the Jeep and see how far it gets me.” He turned and walked back to the car, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll get a place in Kearney so we can still hunt together.” He was gonna add something about not giving up on the Mark but before he could, a weight sent him flying forward. Stumbling, staggering, he landed against the driver’s side of car. Smashed against glass and metal by Dean’s weight, Sam couldn’t breath, couldn’t move. He elbowed and barked, “What th—”

“Shut up,” Dean growled. “Sammy, just—”

And oh, _fuck_, it wasn’t a fight because Dean wasn’t punching, he was pressing, he was— Heart in his throat, Sam tried to turn. “Dean?”

“Get in the car. Get in.”

So this was what stroking out felt like, Sam thought dizzily as he fumbled sideways, groping for the door handle. His arms and legs were shaky and weak because his heart was pounding and he could feel the lust in his temples and throat, could feel it in his whole body. Stroking out but hopefully not dying, he opened the door and fell inside.

Dean followed, herding him across the long seat until Sam was jammed up against the corner.

He twisted around. He reached out.

Between Sam’s legs, looming over, Dean’s head was turned away and he was again motionless; his only movement was the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

The world slip-slided again as reality intruded, giving Sam all the unsexy reasons why this was such a bad idea. Dean’s stillness, his refusal to even look—Sam knew what that meant. It was okay even though he wanted to kiss Dean, wanted to finally find out what that mouth tasted li—

Dean made a sound and shifted his weight, his knee pressed against the inside of Sam’s thigh.

Sam leaned over and brushed his cheek against Dean’s.

Dean made the sound again and came alive, snaking an arm under Sam’s coat, his hand hunting, searching.

“Shit,” Sam breathed because Dean had managed to find some skin and those cold fingers were a converse tinder to spark. Stomach turned to honey, Sam raised his knee, opening himself up. “Shit.”

Dean answered with a formless growl and grabbed Sam’s hips. He yanked until Sam was flat on the seat, legs all over the place. Gaze still firmly fixed on everything but Sam’s face, Dean unbuttoned Sam’s coat and jeans and then his own. He rolled onto Sam and settled down.

_“Fuck,” _Sam wheezed because Dean was heavy and it was such a surprising turn on, being pushed into the vinyl.

Dean answered by shoving Sam’s shirt up. He answered by shifting his hips and getting to work.

It was crazy and fast and mostly silent. Dean didn’t speak; he just hunched and pushed against Sam, his face hidden against Sam’s chest.

Sam held on the best he could, arms wrapped around whatever he could, legs angled all wrong with no room to move. He tried to feel, though, tried to feel what he was feeling but it was no use. With the world spinning in sync with the rhythmic sweep of blood in his ears, he hit the crest and arched, stifling his unexpected cry in his own throat. Groaning, he shuddered on the down drift.

Still without a word, not even a curse, Dean came quickly after.

And then, like a child’s toy that had run out of juice, the world stopped spinning and everything got quiet.

***

He didn’t have time or energy for an after glow. He opened his eyes as Dean levered up and off. “Hey?” Sam said foolishly.

Dean ignored him. He just turned his back and zipped up. And then he was out the door, not quite closing it.

Sam felt his damp stomach and hip. The mountain air was pleasantly cool on his hot skin and he wanted to stay still, disarrayed and dazed and so very not confused. But Dean was out there, stomping around hard enough for Sam to hear the crunch of snow and mud. So he pulled up his shorts and jeans and then got out of the car. “Hey?” he said again.

Facing the road, Dean froze.

There were many ways Sam could play this but his legs felt like jelly and his face hurt and he wasn’t in the mood. So he buttoned up and went around the passenger’s side and got back in.

After a moment, Dean came, too.

***

Because it was better that way, Sam slept most of the way back to the motel. When they pulled into the lot, he roused and then looked around. The parking lot was full again. “Stupid question, but are we gonna talk about this?”

Dean clenched his jaw. And then turned the engine off and got out.

Same old story, Sam thought as he watched Dean leave. Same old, and he should have known. When was he going to learn?

***

As soon as Sam got inside, he turned on the lights and then went to the bathroom. His legs had de-jellified but his thighs kind of hurt and his cheeks still stung. He peered into the cloudy mirror and touched his jaw, tipping his head this way and that. Huh. The culprit had been Dean’s beard and he remembered Jess’s occasional complaints, how she’d always wanted him clean-shaven because his beard had hurt her skin.

What goes around comes around and Sam tried not to be freaked out that he was the girl in this situation. It was a pretty minor issue compared to the big one, the fact that he’d just had sex in the back of a car with his brother.

Practice not making something perfect, Sam’s stomach roiled once more and he grabbed the sink and bent over.

He’d just had real, no-holds barred sex with his brother.

Shit.

Now that the driving need was sated, rational thought was back online and it was shouting loud and clear, ‘_What is wrong with you?’ _because he’d just had intentional, wide-awake sex with his brother and it was so fucked up. Only…

Only, it really wasn’t but he couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe because his stomach and chest ached but it was a different pain from before, already fading. Maybe because whatever shame he was feeling was different, also muted and dull. But that was wrong, too. Anyone else would be suicidal or at least sickened to the point of vamoosing but not him and that said everything, right?

Straightening up, feeling old and weary, Sam leaned closer to the mirror.

Same guy, same Sam Winchester. Six four, brown hair, green eyes, demon repelling tattoo on his chest. He was still human. He hadn’t turned into a ghoul or a vamp or a monster. He’d just had sex in the back of the car with his brother, and there’d been no mind whammy, no Dean in a trance, no coercion or force. Just an act so primal and basic it felt as if he’d been falling towards it all his life, landing where he was always gonna land.

So if he was gonna freak out, it probably should be about something else like his lack of freak-out, but even as the thought gained form, he decided he was too tired.

He had energy only for the next thing, which was to get in the shower and wash away all traces of Dean.

***

_‘The cause of the crash is unknown but fifteen men are confirmed dead. Among the casualties are three guards and—’ _

Sam switched the channel. It had been a long day; he’d read about the bus crash in the morning.

Unfortunately, late evening Crestone programing wasn’t any better than early evening Crestone programming. His only choices were two news programs, three infomercials, and a grainy episode of _I Love Lucy. _

Sam turned off the TV and got out his cell. Eleven thirty-seven and he was nowhere near sleep, he was on edge, jacked-up. He didn’t have either the Impala’s keys or the Jeep’s. He’d have to get them from Dean and that meant braving the lion’s den or waiting until morning. But if he left now he could be halfway home by four. Lunch in Kearney was a possibility, giving him time to check out the rental situation, then back to the bunker to get his gear. He might have to go the motel route at first because he only had a couple hundred dollars stuffed under his mattress, but maybe in a few months he’d be able to afford something more permanent.

It was a stupid, knee-jerk plan, motivated by anger and frustration and he knew it the minute he heard the knock, the second he opened the door to find Dean standing on his stoop.

“You’ve got my stuff,” Dean said, giving Sam a quick up and down before looking off to the side.

It was snowing. Dean’s hair and shoulders were covered with snow—he must have been standing out there for a while. “Yeah,” Sam said, stepping back to let Dean in. “It’s on the floor over there.”

Dean got the bag, set it on the bed and unzipped it. “You going to bed?”

“I— Yeah,” Sam said. “Probably.” He closed the door.

Dean fished around in the bag and then got his tablet out. “I can’t sleep.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. After his shower, he’d pulled on sweats but not a shirt or shoes and he was suddenly cold. “It’s only been a little while; give it some more time.”

Dean turned on the tablet. “There was a bus crash in Texas.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“It went through the guardrail and landed on a freaking train. The driver must’ve been stoned.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“The prisoners were chained together.”

“Yeah.”

Dean tapped the tablet’s screen. “Is there wi-fi?”

“Yeah, but it sucks.”

“Typical.” Dean put the tablet back in the bag. “I’ve got one good piece of news—I think I solved the Magnus problem. Or at least part of it.”

Sam dropped his arms. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Dean shot a glance Sam’s way, then just as quickly, looked away. “If it’s a leftover spell, then I need a witch I can trust and which witch do I know?”

“I—” He was an idiot. “James Frane.”

“Yeah, James.”

Sam turned in a sharp circle, angrily combing back his damp hair. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because we’ve been busy and you’ve been freaked out about the Mark,” Dean answered. “Among other things.” He zipped the bag and drew it over his shoulder. But he didn’t leave, he didn’t even move. He just stared at the ugly bedspread and said, “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Dean fiddled with the bag’s zipper. “The heater in my room is broken.”

And just like that the on-edge feeling ramped up, making way for a jittery, shivery nervousness that warmed Sam’s stomach and dried his mouth. “Mine’s working. You can stay here. I’m pretty tired.” Code for: _I want you here but I’m still processing so sex is out. _

Dean gave no sign that he heard Sam’s silent caveat, but Sam knew he had when he just agreed, “Yeah. Okay. I’m tired, too.”

Walking on glass, telling himself it meant nothing, Sam went over and locked and bolted the door. Then, still keeping his eyes to himself, he went around the room and turned off the bathroom and overhead lights. When he was done, he got under the covers. As soon as he was down and his back turned, he asked, “What time are you heading out?”

“I don’t know. Five or six?”

Sam tucked his arm under the pillow. He could hear the hushed noises as Dean removed his boots and jeans. “You should go with me if that Cherokee’s about to crap out.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

There was a dip in the mattress. “You want the lamp off?”

“Sure.”

Sam reached up and flicked the switch. Soothing dark replaced brittle light and Sam let out the breath he was holding. He could do this. _They _could do this. All it took was a little faith and a lot of will.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

There was a breath of a pause. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Sam sighed and it came out shaky. “Yeah. Me neither.” He waited because he could practically feel the thing that Dean was gonna say next.

Sure enough, after a pause that was heavy as stone, Dean whispered, “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Is this gonna ruin us?”

Sam rolled to his back; his shoulder was an inch from Dean’s. Entering new territory was always fraught with danger but he’d never experienced this kind of uncertain chaos. He didn’t know what Dean wanted him to say, didn’t know what would set him off. Hell, he didn’t even know what he _himself _wanted to say because he didn’t even know what he wanted. The idea of having sex with Dean ever again seemed completely impossible.

But that really wasn’t what Dean was asking, was it? So Sam cleared his throat and murmured, his voice hoarse, “I think in the grand scheme of things, we’ve had a lot worse things happen to us. Hell, we’ve _done _a lot worse, so no, it’s not gonna ruin us.”

Dean grunted softly.

Sam edged sideways, just a little until his shoulder pressed Dean’s. And then he rolled back to his side and pulled up the blanket.

____________________________

“Any luck?” Dean asked as he trudged up the stairs with a six-pack in hand.

Sam closed the file folder. “No.”

“Cas?”

From the other side of the room, Castiel said, “Nothing so far. Your friend James has certainly warded himself and his familiar quite effectively.”

Dean leaned against the map table. “I know what the answer’s gonna be to this next question, but Charlie?”

Sam put the folder on the stack to his left. “Nope.” No word on Charlie or her hunt for a cure for the Mark.

“All righty then. Business as usual.”

He looked up. Dean was concentrating on opening a beer, something he could do with his eyes closed, so, yeah, business as usual. “Looks like it.”

Dean raised the bottle to no one in particular. “It’s good that things are quiet out there.” He took a pull. “Am I right or am I right?”

Sam pressed his lips tight together. Sarcasm and alcohol had become Dean’s twin sanctuaries. Well, that and Castiel, brought in by Dean, purportedly to help them search for James Frane but really to act as a chaperone.

A chaperone, Sam thought with bitter irritation. They’d arrived home three days ago and had only managed one day of Dean nowhere that Sam was before Castiel showed up at the door. Dean had called him, Cas had said, in the hopes that his angel skills could help track the witch. The truth of what was going on was apparent when Dean magically emerged from wherever he’d been hiding as soon as Castiel came down the stairs. Dean had taken a seat at the map table and had asked Castiel to join him, his voice filled with false cheer.

Third wheel, Sam had stood there, wondering if he was embarrassed, furious, or just plain sad. Deciding all three worked, he’d grabbed the box of file folders and went to table furthest away. Screw Dean for thinking he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

The thing was, he couldn’t quite hold on to his fury because even though the Mark seemed to have calmed down, Magnus’s spell hadn’t. Dean had zombied out seven times over the course of the following two days, the first a shock because Sam had stupidly thought that sex would have done the trick. His own chagrin had been an eye opener and he couldn’t help but grimace, remembering it.

“Something funny over there?” Dean asked.

_‘At least you can be in the same room as me; at least you can look at me without flinching.’_ “Just thinking what Rowena would say if we asked her to help break the spell.”

Dean snorted. “I don’t even wanna. Probably turn us into toads.”

Sam’s grimace changed to a reluctant smile that was still there when his cell rang.

***

“Did LaMar say _which_ townhome?” Sam asked, hunkering down to peer through the passenger side window.

“The second from the end, 528b,” Dean answered as he drove slowly down the street. “Those are the ugliest homes I have ever seen.”

Sam had to agree. The neighborhoods were endless loops of attached, identical, tan structures. Even the mini-vans parked in the driveways were pretty much the same, the only difference being that some were white, some were silver. “A wendigo in southern Las Vegas,” he murmured. “What’s the world coming to?”

“This isn’t Las Vegas.”

“It might as well be.”

“Bit your tongue.”

Sam shrugged ‘cause, yeah Dean was right, this _wasn’t _Las Vegas. The housing complex was some distance from Las Vegas’s main drag and was merely meandering streets filled with rows of ugly houses done in a fake Mediterranean-style and fronted by small patches of green. Talk about depressing.

At least the day had been sunny and warm. February hadn’t even begun and he was so sick of snow—he’d jumped at the chance of getting free of the cold. “So I gotta ask—if we find it, are we gonna burn it? These houses on each block are attached.”

“Yeah, I was thinking about that. If we can get it trapped in a garage or bathroom, we might be able to torch it without burning down the rest of the house.”

“Most garages have flammable things in them, Dean.”

“You know what I mean.”

Sam shrugged again and then stilled. “Hey?”

“Yeah?”

Sam scanned the street. “Does this block seem really quiet to you?”

“It’s Tuesday. Tuesdays are supposed to be quiet.”

“It’s four-thirty and a school day which means parents coming home from work, kids playing outside before dinner. You know, normal, suburban, tract home kind of stuff.”

“Like you even know what that is.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, all right, you’re right,” Dean said, almost angry. “It _does _seem really weird.” He jerked the car to the curb, muttering, “God_damnit_,” under his breath.

***

They found the reason for the peculiar calm the minute they broke into 528b.

“Do you think they had to pay extra for the freaking big hole in the wall?” Dean whispered, his gun raised.

“I guess it would be a good way to get to know your neighbors.” Sam inched forward to stand by Dean’s side. The breach between 528b and 528c was about ten feet wide. Twin piles of dry wall and wood were scattered in front of the hole and beyond. “It looks like something clawed in through the drywall.”

“Or out,” Dean replied. “Either way, it went right through the electrical.”

The wendigo had gone through the electrical all right—wires and cables hung exposed and parts of the wall were charred black. “I thought wendigos were afraid of fire.”

“We once thought they stayed north.”

Sam nodded because that _had _been a surprise. “How do you want to play this?”

“Follow the trail?”

“All right; just watch out for any live wires.”

“And monsters.”

Sam adjusted his flame-thrower and then his backpack; inside the pack, the fuel canisters rolled and clinked. “Yeah, those, too.”

***

The second home was a copy of the first though they found a family in the hall, about six feet from the front door. The parents were draped over the children as if they’d died trying to protect them.

“Son of a bitch,” was all Dean whispered as stepped over the bodies and gestured to the living room.

Swallowing his helpless rage, Sam nodded. Son of a bitch.

***

Like explorers, they followed the trail of carnage, stealing through five more houses until they found their prey crouched over the remains of another body. The wendigo was male and tall enough to make Sam feel short. Dean didn’t bother with diplomacy or caution—he just growled, “Light the fucker up, Sammy,” and began firing.

***

They pulled away just as the fire trucks turned the corner down the street.

“You sure there was nobody alive?” Sam said, eyes on the side mirror, on the orange glow of the growing fire.

“Did you see the size of its cache? The whole block was in there.”

Sam hadn’t seen anything of the sort. By the time they’d reached the wendigo’s foul lair, he’d been in a kind of a daze.

“You okay?”

“Sure. Sure, I’m fine. I just…”

“You just haven’t seen anything like that before,” Dean muttered. “Me neither.”

He turned his head. Dean’s gaze was fixed and grim. “How are you?”

“Do you mean did the Mark make me want to chop that thing up until there was nothing left?” He gave Sam a quick look. “I was angry, Sam, but it was just normal rage, you know?”

Sam sighed. Normal rage. “Yeah, I know.” He could still feel it, the sick fury, simmering under his skin like a fever.

“You hungry?”

He closed his eyes. “Not even.”

***

Sam assumed they’d drive directly back home but they’d only reached the highway when Dean cleared his throat and said, “Feel like hanging out? We missed our annual LV bash.”

“I— Yeah, sure.”

“Better call Cas or he’ll worry.”

Sam got out his cell. “Okay.”

***

They found a place on the edge of the civilization. Dean pulled into a parking space and killed the engine.

Sam squinted up at the sign: The Desert Rose. “You sure you don’t want to stay closer to the action? I thought you wanted to lose some money?”

Fingers still touching the keys, Dean shrugged. “Not so much now. Don’t have the cash and I’m kinda…”

Sam nodded slowly as Dean trailed off. “You’re kind of sick of killing things, kind of sick of things killing innocent bystanders?”

Dean nodded.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam murmured, knowing it was more than that. Sick of the life, sick of the worry and fear and the sense that the road they were on was sure to end in blood, sooner rather than later. “Do you want me to check us in?”

Dean pulled the key out. “No. I will.”

***

He got their gear while Dean took care of business. When he followed Dean to and into the room, he found himself facing a big king bed. Dean was staring down at the motel key, his face turned from Sam’s.

Sam knew Dean was waiting for the, _‘The parking lot is half empty—they didn’t have two queens?’ _or, _‘It’s been four days and you’ve maybe looked at me three times—what’s going on?’ _But he was suddenly walking a paper-thin edge of possibilities and he was only able to say, “You gotta eat and so do I—is pizza okay?”

***

Dean showered while Sam waited on the pizza.

When it came, twenty minutes late, the kid with the requisite bad skin bounced on his heels and glanced inside. “Sorry. Got caught in a traffic jam,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Sam got out his wallet. “Good thing you had something to calm you down.” The kid reeked of pot and his eyes were watery red.

“Hey, I got a condition, bro,” the kid said.

As Sam gave the kid thirty bucks, the bathroom door opened. “I’m sure you do. Keep the change.”

The kid took the money and handed over the pizza. He glanced into the room; his eyes widened.

Sam looked around. Dean had come out of the bathroom. He was wearing jeans but shirtless and still damp, like something from a porno. Sam opened his mouth to explain but before he could, the kid bounced again and said with a smirk, “Looks like you got a condition, too.”

Sam answered by slamming the door shut.

He set the pizza on the table. “Dude, can you put some clothes on? You’re gonna give the neighbors a heart attack.”

When Dean joined him wearing an old t-shirt that advertised _Billy’s Bar, Best Ribs in Kansas_, he was smirking, just a little.

***

Laptop and tablet on the table, they read while they ate. Dean kept a running commentary on the violent happenings across the country, finally concluding that none were monster related. Too aware of the big bed five feet away, Sam focused on focusing, allowing himself a bland, _‘That sounds bad,’_ and _‘Huh,’_ every so often.

At nine, the familiar anxiety and restlessness building, Sam texted Castiel and asked if there was any news about the Mark or James. At nine-thirty he got a reply, a simple ‘No.’

At ten, stomach doing flips, concentration well and truly broken, Sam closed the laptop and turned on the TV. He sat on the edge of the bed, willing Dean to make a move. _Yes or no, yes or…_ Dean cleared his throat and kept scanning the news.

At ten-twenty, tired of waiting and more than a little confused, Sam stood up. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” he announced, feeling stupid because he’d never had to say anything like that before.

Dean just grunted in response.

Sam got his kit and marched into the bathroom and shut the door. Mind blank, he examined his face too carefully, noting his flushed skin and bright, angry eyes. He brushed his teeth carefully, though, spending too much time getting each tooth. Finally, he told himself to just stop it; nothing was gonna happen and he didn’t want it to, anyway. He rinsed one more time and opened the door.

He’d sorta half expected, or maybe half-hoped, that Dean would be on the bed or in it, but Dean wasn’t—he was still at the table, chin in hand.

“All done?” Dean asked without looking around.

“Yeah. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay.”

Anger boiling over, Sam went to the bed and jerked the covers down. He stripped the same way, tugging his clothes off with too much effort, saying a silent _‘fuck you’ _to Dean because he rarely slept in just his shorts while they were hunting but if Dean was gonna be a jerk about all this, he was gonna more skin than he obviously wanted.

Sam’s anger died back when he turned off his lamp and slid between the sheets. He was suddenly exhausted, drained of everything but the shape and form of his own expectations. Four days ago, if anyone had been stupid enough to ask, he would have said there was no way he’d ever touch Dean in that way again. Four days, apparently, was the perfect amount of time for indeterminate shame to cool, reform, and reshape into rock-hard desire that was flawless and exact and not in anyway vague.

It sucked and he was still quietly fuming about it when Dean got up and went to the bathroom. Expecting a long moment alone, Sam was nevertheless surprised when Dean came out after a few minutes. He lay there, eyes firmly closed, listening to the familiar sounds of Dean getting ready for bed.

Dean sat on the other side of the bed. “Hey?”

Sam opened his eyes but didn’t turn around. Dean had switched off all the lights. “Yeah?”

“These last few days—” Dean cleared his throat. “I know I’ve been a dick about all this, but I…”

Heart tripping, Sam waited for more. When more didn’t come, he whispered, “I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“The bitch of it is, I don’t know what I want.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The mattress moved and dipped. “Really?”

“Yeah. I— I get it. I’ve been half hoping you wouldn’t want— You know.” Sam turned his head. “But now that we’re here—” He shrugged, unwilling to go first in this.

Dean drew a deep breath. And then he sighed and got under the covers. Another moment that weighed a ton and he slid closer and wrapped a slow arm around Sam’s waist.

_‘Heart attack city, here we come’ _Sam thought because he couldn’t speak. His pulse was one more doing the fandango and all the blood was rushing south. Dean was wearing a t-shirt and the feeling of that cotton against his bare skin…

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you do something for me? I wanna see…” Dean trailed off.

Sam rolled over, pushing Dean back. It was dark but not that dark. The light from The Desert Rose sign outlined the curve of Dean’s cheek and ear. “What?” he asked, his face on fire, thinking, hand job, blow job, real fucking, what?

Dean swallowed and raised his arm. “Can you touch the Mark. I wanna see…”

Dean trailed off again and that was okay with Sam because his throat was tight and there was no way whatever he’d say would come out right. Somehow, _‘Can you touch the Mark?’_ was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard and he really _was_ gonna stroke out. “Yeah,” he finally managed, his voice so not steady. “Let me…” He slid his hand up Dean’s arm.

It was like he was touching Dean for the first time but maybe that was because he was really letting himself _feel _for the first time…

Dean’s surprisingly soft skin sheathed smooth muscle and knobby bone. The hair on the back of his arm added an odd texture, one Sam couldn’t quite identify other than it felt good, it felt sexy.

He tracked his own hand’s progress and when he got to the Mark, he ghosted over the uneven flesh and then covered it, first with his fingers and then his palm. It didn’t feel like anything special, not more hot or more cold—it just felt like Dean. “Does that hurt?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I thought it might but it just feels good. You feel good.” He smiled a pale smile. “It could just be you, of course.”

“Okay. Let’s try this.” Very carefully in case Dean objected, he leaned over and brushed his lips against the Mark. “Any better?” he breathed. “Any worse?”

When Dean spoke his voice was strained, “Sam…”

In the not-dark Sam stared up at Dean, at the way Dean wasn’t quite watching him. It was just like before in the car, on the rim of the precipice, lust and love making him shiver, making him nuts…

But it wasn’t before and if they were gonna do this, they were gonna do it right. “Dean?”

Dean didn’t move.

Taking it as his cue, Sam cupped Dean’s jaw. He leaned over.

Dean froze so it wasn’t quite a kiss.

Just a closed-mouth nothing, Sam pressing his lips against the corner of Dean’s mouth. He drew back to regroup only Dean made some needy sound; the hair on the back of Sam’s neck rose. He tried to say, “It’s okay,” only nothing came out because Dean drew a harsh breath and then turned his head.

All those years.

All those years watching Dean with others, curiosity mixed with a fascination that was _too_ curious, _too _fascinated—both secretive needs that bordered on obsessed. All those years but it was finally his turn and…

The kiss was slow and tentative. Dean lips tasted of beer and toothpaste and Sam could feel the way Dean was shaking, a subsurface tremor all the more electrifying because this was Dean, his rock-solid—

Dean made another sound and threaded his fingers through Sam’s hair. He tugged and then licked Sam’s lips.

Cold fire raced up Sam’s spine. He groaned, angled his head and parted his lips. Christ, so much better, taking Dean in while opening him up. So much better but also kind of too much, the heat of Dean’s mouth, the sharpness of his sharp teeth and the feeling of his bod… It all made the world tip and spin like Sam was in a whirlwind or tornado, without any kind of anchor or compa—

“Hey.”

Sam kisses had turned into bites and he used his larger mass to shove Dean back so he cou—

“Sam, wait.” Hands on shoulders, Dean pushed Sam back.

Sam blinked. And then stiffened, trying to jerk free. “What?” Sam said, a black tide of anger gathering beneath the lust. “Don’t make me stop ‘cause I’m done wi—”

Dean interrupted Sam by rubbing his thumb along the blade of Sam’s jaw. “No,” he murmured. “I just wanted to say that it’s early and we’ve got all night. I don’t want to rush it.”

The drop and catch was too much. Sam sagged and then nodded. “Yeah, okay. Slow is good. I can do slow.”

“Just wake me if I zone out.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, unable to tell Dean he had no idea how to do that. So they knew the source of the problem—so what? That didn’t mean he knew how to _fix _Dean, how to stop a fugue while it was happening, that it might be dangerous to even try. But that kind of fear solved nothing and besides, when it got right down to it, this night was a gift, one that might not come again and he didn’t want to fuck it up with ‘what ifs.’ So he just murmured, “Sure. Of course,” and started over.

Sam learned a few things that night.

He learned that the underside of Dean’s chin tasted of salt and aftershave. He learned that if he tongued a stripe over the curve of Dean’s floating ribs, Dean would arch and moan and grab his shoulders. He discovered that Dean’s skin was sort of thick and sleek and made for biting. He wanted to tell Dean about that particular discovery, that he finally got why that vamp had turned Dean because there was something so very delicious about him but he put it off because why bring up that topic? He didn’t want to touch on work and hunting and the family business—he wanted this one night to be just about the elemental _them._

He learned a few things about himself, too, surprising things like the back of his knee was ticklish and when Dean bit the tendon, Sam arched in a helpless, galvanic response. The one that stood out, though, the one that sent the hair on the back of his neck flying was the one that shouldn’t have been a surprise at all…

_“Jesus.”_

Dean grinned and moved again. “Knew you’d like that, Gigantor.”

It was their second time, the first gone by in a flash. After catching their collective breath, Dean had rolled Sam to his back and pinched his ribs. Thrust out of the sweet,_ ‘I just got laid’ _high, Sam had responded, grabbing Dean around the waist, using his longer arms and legs as a lever. Dean had resisted and the fight was on.

It wasn’t much of anything—they’d done far worse in anger. But, panting, on top of Dean and smiling, Sam stared down. He wished he could see Dean’s expression and not just his colorless form in the colorless room.

“I surrender, Dorothy,” Dean said with a pleased grin.

Sam snorted. “Considering what we know about the Wicked Witch, that’s kind of gross.”

“You mean the no tongue thing?” Dean wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, it is.”

Sam shifted. His leg edged between Dean’s. “I’m glad I didn’t know the truth when I was a kid or that movie would’ve terrified me.”

Dean laughed. “Are you kidding me? You refused to go to the circus that time in El Paso because of the monkeys. Remember?”

Sam shifted again, fitting his hips to Dean’s. The sweat was cooling on his back; in a bit he’d be cold. They hadn’t turned the heater on and a February night in Las Vegas was by no means warm. “I remember you threatened me with them for the next month. I remember that time you told me that if I didn’t get my shit out of the back seat, the flying monkeys were gonna come get me.” He inched down. “Even then you were such a neat freak.”

“Neat freak, huh?” Dean said, his voice dropping as he spread his legs.

Sam’s heart jerked; he licked his lips. “Yeah, I knew a long time ago that you love that car more than—” He couldn’t finish, his joke falling flat because the one thing that the years had proved over and over was that Dean loved him above all else. Dean had suffered for him. Dean had died for him.

“Yeah,” Dean said, reaching down to brush Sam’s hair off his damp forehead. “That, unlike those creepy-ass monkeys of Oz, is never gonna fly.”

Playtime over, Sam let tenderness guide his mouth when he kissed the center of Dean’s palm. “I didn’t mean it. I know how much you love me.”

“Then prove it,” Dean said and even in the dark, Sam could see the way Dean’s eyelids lowered. “Prove how much I love you.” He spread his legs some more. And then raised his knee.

Sam slid between Dean’s legs. He shivered and then muttered, _“Jesus.”_

Dean grinned and moved again. “Knew you’d like that, Gigantor.”

And Sam did, on top of his brother, feeling a mix of sweet love and crazy lust, mind filled with fantasies of fucking Dean every which way. He reached down for the hard arc of Dean’s hip and then gave an experimental push. Dean sighed and made room.

Sam slipped his hand between their bodies.

Head tipped, Dean murmured, “You wanna fuck me, Sammy?”

Sam hunched and groaned.

“You gotta say it if you’re gonna do it.” Dean tucked Sam’s hair behind his ear. “C’mon, let me hear you s—”

“Yes, I want to fuck you,” Sam interrupted with a harsh whisper. “I want to fuck you until you can’t stand up. I want ride you out and then do it again. I want to…” Trembling, fingers just touching Dean’s dick, he pressed his face into Dean’s throat, unsure if he was hiding or not. It was a good thing God had gone missing because he would probably have things to say about this new turn of events. But maybe God already knew. There was Albuquerque, after all. God had still been around back then.

Dean swallowed. “Yeah, thought so.” He wrapped his arms around Sam’s back, his touch turning to comfort, like he could feel the way Sam was shaking from the inside out. “All things being equal, it’s not a bad thing.”

Sam rubbed his cheek against the curve of Dean’s clavicle. “I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I do.

“You wanna…” Dean murmured, running a light hand down Sam’s spine.

“Not now, okay?”

Dean pulled Sam’s hands free and then lacing their fingers together. “Yeah, okay.”

On the wrong side of sadness, Sam began to rock and thrust, searching for the edge that would let him topple over. He couldn’t find it, his thoughts still centered on shame or whatever was bugging him. It was only when Dean wrapped his legs around Sam’s thighs and murmured, “C’mon, Sammy, let it go,” that Sam was actually able to, well, let it go.

***

“Am I too heavy?” Sam asked into Dean’s throat.

Dean shook his head or maybe he nodded. “It’s okay. Don’t move.”

***

Sam woke to find the gray not so gray. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. He’d turned on his side sometime in the night and Dean was pressed up against his back. Sighing at the feeling of Dean’s dick against his ass, he turned over, waking Dean up. Warm under the covers, they had sleepy sex, Sam making Dean do all the work.

***

“Don’t forget your toothbrush,” Sam said, bending over to tie his bootlaces. “I don’t wanna stop just so you can have clean teeth.”

“It was that one time, man,” Dean called from the bathroom. “And it was only because you were bitching at me the whole ride.”

Sam tugged the laces tight. “And that was because you insisted on the extra onions in that burger. My hair smelled like Burger King for two days.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Dean shot back. “It was probably that shampoo you were using back then, the one that was supposed to smell like green apples and didn’t.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder. Dean was standing in the doorway, brushing his teeth. A wave of helpless, hindered tenderness washed over Sam because Dean’s lips and chin were white like a little kid. “You loved that shampoo.”

Dean opened his mouth to speak and then did a comical double take. “Okay, yeah, I did. Better than that crap you’re using now.”

“You picked it out for me,” Sam retorted, placing his hand on the bed that was still unmade, that still held the imprint of Dean’s body. “At Food King, remember?”

“I must’ve had a cold that day,” Dean returned to the bathroom but not before giving Sam a toothpaste grin and a wink.

***

They got back to the bunker a little after nine. Dean made soup and sandwiches while Sam called Castiel and checked their email. They ate a quiet dinner in the library. When they were done and the dishes were washed, they went their separate ways without even discussing it.

***

That night—the night Sam always thought of as their Rose Night though he never told Dean that—set a pattern for the coming weeks. Again, without ever speaking of it, they kept their hands to themselves while in the bunker while they waited on news of James and the Mark. Sam was sort of okay with it. Yes, it would be nice to have Dean with him during the night as well as the day, nice to share more than the cooking and dinner and research. But there was some invisible line neither could cross and so they didn’t. Maybe it was because the bunker was a kind of a home and therefore sacrosanct. Maybe Dean was as leery as Sam because who knew what kind of spy systems the Men of Letters had set up. The bunker still had secrets—maybe that was one of them.

And it sort of didn’t matter because once they were free of the bunker, all bets were off. Once they were free, they hunted as if their lives depended on it; they fucked the same.

They’d been a good team before but now it was like they were one person. East and then south and then west, they tracked monsters and demons, singularly focused, singularly successful. Once the bad thing was dead, decapitated, or salted and burned, they’d pick up food if they were hungry and then find a motel and have sex. At first Sam worried that the Mark was influencing Dean because Dean hunted with a little more abandonment, a little more recklessness. Eventually, he decided, no, it was just them doing what they did best.

Word soon got out about the Winchester hunts. After their fourth nest of vamps, Donny called Dean to check in and congratulate them on their progress: _‘Rudy called LeMar and LeMar called Heather and Heather called me. You guys are killing it out there. What’s going on?’_

Sitting in a Conoco parking lot while Dean lied about luck and timing, Sam had stared at nothing. Dean had bit him the night before, high up on his thigh. He touched the bite mark, absently pressing it. It was weird, feeling that reminder, and hearing Dean’s smooth responses to Donny’s tinny questions. What would Donny say if he knew?

Wrapping up the conversation with, _‘Yeah, we’re good. Me and Sammy are good,’ _Dean had hung up and brushed his knuckles against Sam’s leg, a first, because they were careful not to touch with intent in public.

There were a lot of other firsts, some good, some not so good.

Like the night in Hanksville after a hunt when Dean got into it with a trio of bikers because the short one had taken one look at Sam and called him a long-haired faggot. Sam had laughed it off because the dude had dirty blond hair longer than his own. Dean, however, had downed his beer and then slammed the glass stein against the dude’s head and then took out the other two with a pool cue. The fight came on so quick that Sam was caught by surprise. He stepped in when one of the onlookers decided to get involved, too. He yanked the hulk off Dean and then pulled his knife. With Dean bloody and snarling, Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist and backed out of the bar, Dean protesting all the way.

He’d gotten Dean in the car and took off, tires squealing, rubber burning. They found refuge in a motel near Green River where Sam dabbed alcohol on Dean’s bruises and cuts. By the time Dean was cleaned up and bandaged, he was talking about returning to the bar to finish the guys off. Sam said no way and they got into a fight, the first since they’d set on this new path. The argument didn’t last too long—halfway through Sam pointed to the bed and said, his voice raised, _‘So you wanna go back there and waste time when we could be busy on that?’_ Dean had blinked, said,_ ‘Good point,’ _and that was that. They had slippery sex in the shower, partly because they never had and Dean wanted to try it, mostly because Sam didn’t want to get the sheets bloody.

A good first, one of the best, was after they’d hunted a rogue demon who was terrorizing a small town in Oregon. They’d found the demon inhabiting the local postman and sent him on his way, then went out for pancakes. Crowley had shown up in the middle of breakfast and demanded to know why his people were being killed.

Dean explained in precise, sarcastic terms: _‘The douche was making a lot of promises you weren’t gonna be able to keep and since you’re always motoring on about your freaking _code_, I wouldn’t complain.’ _Sam had coughed in an effort to hide his smile at Dean’s delivery. Crowley thought about it, then nodded. But he glanced between Sam and Dean, his expression changing from irritation to thoughtful evaluation. Wanting anyone but the King of Hell to know about them, Sam had kept his expression blank, willing Crowley to just leave already. Eventually, Crowley did but not before murmuring a coy, _‘You boys don’t have _too_ much fun, all right?’_

Dean had rolled his eyes and said _‘Whatever,’ _all casual contempt, but Sam could see the encounter had bothered him. When they got back to the motel, he was ready for Dean’s, _‘We should probably get going.’ _What he got was Dean slamming him up against the wall to attack his neck.

Moaning, fisting Dean’s jacket, hand down Dean’s pants, Sam had crooked his leg around Dean’s thigh and reeled him in. They started and finished against the wall, the ugly picture of a goat and some mountains rattling and bouncing next to them. When they were done, Sam stripped them both and pushed Dean to the bed. He fucked Dean slowly, wanting to ask, _‘Did you let Crowley have you?’ _and, _‘What about Benny?’ _but didn’t because he really didn’t want to know. Crowley was no competition. Benny, however…

Sam stayed silent and when Dean came, head tipped back and moaning his name, he followed right after.

And then it became one of their best firsts because they were still tangled up in each other, slick with sweat, when Sam realized the sun was streaming over the bed through a crack in the curtains. Which meant they’d actually had sex during the day. Real sex in the real light. He’d bent his lips in a soft smile and touched Dean’s back, right where the sun was turning his skin gold.

***

It couldn’t last, this vacation of theirs. They were on borrowed time and Sam knew it. He was pretty sure Dean knew it, too, because there were a few moments, not many, when Dean would get this look, like a still kind of sadness. He’d find some excuse to leave: a walk outside, a beer or pizza run. When he’d return, he’d be okay.

The first time it had happened they were hunting in Kansas City, Kansas. Dean had left Sam in bed, saying, _‘The delivery’s gotta be crap out here. I’ll be back in a few. You want anything?’_

Sam had gotten dressed and gone out to sit on the cabin’s tiny porch. He downed a beer while he thought about the Mark, Magnus’s spell, and Dean’s own tendency towards anger. Dean hadn’t zoned out any more than usual, and he’d told Sam it felt like the Mark was half asleep. Even so, it would be smart to say,_ ‘It was a good run, but let’s stop before something bad happens,’ _and return to what they’d had. It would be hard but he knew they could do it and he formed the words in his mind: _‘Yeah, I can bite that bullet when the time comes. In fact, I’ll bring it up when Dean gets back.’_

But, when Dean returned with a cheeseburger and a salad, Sam’s mood shifted and he couldn’t do it. He listened while Dean told him of the doofus behind the counter at the burger joint, grinning weakly until his fake smile became real.

The thing was, he was happy. It wasn’t that mindless, everything-is-sunny-and-good happiness he’d had with Jess—it was darker and scarier but somehow more completely _him_. He thought Dean was happy, too. They still fought over stupid stuff, they still argued about the particulars of particular hunts, but…

Dean, being Dean, never said it, though Sam saw and felt the changes, the smiles that weren’t guarded, the accidental mentions of a future that wasn’t burned bones and Sam living behind a picket fence with one-point-two children and a wife that only knew part of him. So, he said nothing and tried to live each moment in his own fugue state, holding onto a promise he’d never made nor requested.

Still, when the fall came, it came fast, it came hard.

***

“Hello, Sam.”

Half asleep, Sam jerked and then straightened up. Castiel was standing by the map table, his head slightly cocked. Sam closed the book he hadn’t been reading. “Cas, you’re here.”

Castiel frowned. “Where else should I be?”

“Uh, yeah, good question.”

“Thank you.”

Sam put the book of magical spells on top of the motorcycle magazines. “How are you?” he asked absently. Dean had been working on Dorothy’s Indian and decided the bike needed a new fuel tank which led to Sam researching tanks because there was no way they were gonna spend seven hundred dollars on something Dean would use only a couple times a year. “Any news?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I’ve found James Frane.”

Sam stilled, his hand on the book. “You did?”

“I did. He was in Bucharest studying under a witch by the name of Madame Isobel Gowdie. I told him of your predicament and he agreed to assist you. He’s gathering up the materials he might need and is leaving Romania in two days.”

“Oh.”

“Who’s leaving Romania in two days?” Dean asked, coming up the stairs with two plates holding two sandwiches.

Sam straightened the magazines, lining their spines up neatly. “James Frane. Cas found him.”

Dean stopped. “Oh.”

Castiel glanced from Dean to Sam. “By your expressions this isn’t good news.” He frowned. “Why isn’t this good news?”

“It is.” Dean set the plates down and pushed one towards Sam. “Of course, it is.”

“You’re lying,” Castiel stated. “Is this because of your honeymoon? I thought—”

“Cas—” Dean said, looking everywhere but at Sam. “That’s not what— I said Sam and me needed some—” He shook his head and then rubbed his forehead. “_Down_time. I said downtime, that’s all.”

Castiel cocked his head. “Like all celestial beings, I have perfect memory and I clearly remember you asking me to—”

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean said, loud enough for it to be a shout. “Will you just—” He broke off and shook his head again, this time turning his back on Sam.

“I don’t see the problem. You said intergenerational incest was wrong while sib—”

“Oh, my God,” Dean moaned before Castiel could finish. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna kill myself and then you, in that order.”

Castiel drew a breath to speak but Sam shook his head and then said, “Cas? Can you give us a minute?”

“Of course. Would you prefer if I wait outside?”

With one eye on Dean, Sam nodded. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Sam waited until Castiel had gone and then cleared his throat. “So.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a good thing.”

“I know.”

“We need to get rid of the Mark but we can’t do that if Magnus’s spell is messing you up.”

Heavily, like his legs had just given out, Dean dropped to the edge of the table. “I know.”

Driving in from a job in Paradox, Colorado, they had stopped by the Cost Cutters in Phillipsburg so Dean could get a haircut. The stylist had been a girl about twenty and more interested in Dean than Dean’s hair. She’d laughed and flirted and got distracted and trimmed the section above Dean’s ear a little too close. Now, Sam examined the area, remembering the unexpected sharp spike of jealousy, the way he’d wanted to get up and grab the scissors from the girl’s hand and pull Dean out of the chair. “Are you worried he won’t be able to break the spell?”

When Dean didn’t answer, Sam got up and went around to sit on the table, too. “You’re afraid he _will _be able to break the spell.”

Dean shrugged and then said to the floor, “I’ve been thinking… This thing between you and me, maybe it’s because of Magnus. Maybe he’s the reas—”

“No.” So, yeah, they were in the bunker where they didn’t touch each other and all that but he couldn’t _not. _Sam slipped his hand under Dean’s, palm to palm. “No. It can’t be. I…”

Dean didn’t turn but he cocked his head. “You what?”

Sam swallowed. “Albuquerque was the first time but it really wasn’t. I—” He shook his head, hoping Dean was hearing what he couldn’t say.

Dean laced his fingers through Sam’s. “It wasn’t?”

“No.”

Dean drew their hands onto his thigh and began to rub the back of Sam’s with his thumb. “Was that something else you were gonna keep from me forever?”

Sam had to laugh, a bitter, _you gotta be kidding_ laugh. “Yeah, that was the plan.”

“Okay.” Dean nodded and then mumbled, “Well, me too, Sammy. About Albuquerque, I mean.”

Sam’s lips were so dry and he licked them because they’d fucked in almost every way possible but this small, barely-there admission was… It was scarily intimate. “Yeah?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Sam said after a moment. “Okay. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with James, but not trying is out. I don’t believe it will change anything and you have to be free from Magnus’s spell so we’re gonna do it.”

“Just like that, huh?” Dean turned to look at Sam. “Am I gonna have any say?”

“No. Not in this.”

Dean breathed a laugh. And then he leaned against Sam’s arm. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Under the bunker’s fluorescent lights, Dean’s eyes were like grey-green glass. “Just like that?”

Dean smiled. “Oh, I have a few conditions, but yeah.”

“And those conditions are?”

“If James is leaving Bucharest in two days, it’s gonna take him another day or so to get here. That gives us at least a couple days.”

“And?”

“And, we’re gonna get enough food for a week and sit tight, no hunting unless another freaking apocalypse comes calling.”

“Anything else?” Sam asked. His pulse was heavy because he knew what ‘sit tight’ was code for. They were gonna have another first and his whole body flushed with lust and love.

“Yeah. No more research, at least for now.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Sammy.” Dean pushed away and twisted to face Sam. “If you so much as touch your laptop, I’ll rip it apart.”

“I can _not_ do research for three days, Dean,” Sam said because he could.

“Hm, mm.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s fingers. “Okay, here’s mine: no Crowley. I don’t care if he’s threatening to burn the place down around our ears, you don’t answer his calls.”

Dean lost his smug, arch smile. “Sam. You don’t have to be jealous of him.”

“You sure?”

He expected protestations but Dean just raised their hands and then kissed the inside of his wrist. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice sounded weird because there was a knot in his throat. “Go tell Cas we need three days.”

Dean let go and slid off the table. He picked up the plates and headed towards the stairs. “I’ll put these in the fridge. You wanna make a grocery list? I’ll run to the store.”

“Sure.” Sam leaned sideways and quietly drew his laptop across the table.

“I heard that,” Dean called without turning around.

“Honeymoon, was it?” Sam replied just as loud with as much innuendo as possible because he’d been waiting for the right moment.

Dean stopped in his tracks. And then he yelled, “Shut up!” and continued downstairs.

***

As if they were preparing for the end times, Dean went to Salina to stock the bunker with everything they’d need so they could, as he said, _‘Sit tight and shut out the whole goddamn world.’_

Sam cleared the books and research off the tables. He was downstairs putting the Men of Letters files away when he realized he was nervous. Three days alone wasn’t new—they’d lived almost their whole lives on the outside of everything, cocooned in their hunter’s world. Three days was nothing.

But it was different, _this_ was different. For all intents and purposes, this was their home and for the first time the meaning of ‘home’ was going to change. Like a picket-fenced house without the pickets or the house. It meant something but it was too big, too strong, so Sam pushed it to the back of his mind because he deserved three days away from himself, too.

***

“Uh-huh.”

Sam slammed the laptop shut. “I wasn’t.” He looked over his shoulder. Coming up from the garage, Dean had a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a gift bag. “I was checking the weather.”

“That the best you can do?”

“You’re paranoid, you know that?”

Dean just smirked.

Sam jerked his chin towards the bottle. “You hate wine.” It was a deflection because Dean had been right—without realizing what he’d been doing, he’d opened the computer and googled the Mark of Cain.

Dean held the bottle up, displaying the label. “Yeah, I hate wine, but this isn’t wine, it’s—”

“Champagne,” Sam finished for him. “We’re celebrating?”

Dean put everything down and got a corkscrew out of his back pocket. He began uncorking the champagne. “We are. Cas said he’d return in seventy-two hours so that means seventy-two hours with nothing to do but party.”

“So.” Sam picked his laptop up. “Kind of like a honey—”

“Sammy.” Dean interrupted pleasantly. “I told you to shut your trap about that.”

He grinned and tucked the laptop on a shelf. “Like that’s gonna happen.” There was no answer and he turned. Dean was standing by the table, statue-still. “Dean?” Sam’s heart dropped and damnit, this was the first time Dean had zombiefied in days.

He hurried over and took the bottle and corkscrew and set both on the table “Hey?” he murmured, carefully wrapping his arms around Dean’s unresponsive body. “C’mon.” He stepped closer and dropped his head on Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon back to me,” he whispered, his voice muffled.

With a shudder and a gulp, Dean came back. “I told you—” He stiffened but didn’t push Sam back. After a long second, he asked, “Did I—?”

“Yeah.”

Dean didn’t say anything and then he muttered, “Don’t freak out, Sammy. It’s not a big deal.”

Sam just hugged Dean tighter.

Dean sighed and hugged Sam back. “Okay, it’s a little bit of a deal. I guess celebrating is out now, huh.”

Sam made a noise deep in his throat and then pulled back. “No way. We’re still gonna do that.”

Dean gave Sam a sad smile and said, “All right,” then thumbed the damp from Sam’s eyes. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Sam nodded and squeezed Dean’s waist. “I’ll get the lights.”

***

They went side by side down to Dean’s room.

Sam paused at the threshold, feeling the significance of the moment.

“It’s a little freaky, isn’t it?” Dean asked. He stepped into the room, looking around as if seeing it for the first time.

Sam’s jaw worked as a whirlwind of memories buffeted him: Dean’s happiness when he’d picked the room, when he’d ordered the new mattress. Dean had even gone to Dad’s storage locker in South Dakota to get some of the gear they’d both put away for safe keeping: Dean’s vinyl and Sam’s books.

Dean had placed each item so carefully. And he still kept the room neat and tidy, as neat and tidy as he kept Baby. It was like the room was a shrine. Or, Sam thought with a sick flip of his stomach, like this one thing, this room, was the only pure thing in Dean’s life and he needed to preserve it as a bulwark against any darkness to come. “No,” Sam finally said, the word as hard as iron in his throat. With his own charred soul, he didn’t fit in Dean’s perfect room but he could fake it. _‘Fake it ‘til you make it,’_ Dean had said during one of their cases. “It’s not. It’s not freaky.”

Dean turned. “Yeah?”

“We belong here, you and me together.” Holding Dean’s gaze, Sam stepped across the threshold. He closed the door. And then, like he was preforming a ritual to set a spell or a charm, he unbuttoned his shirt and hung it neatly on the back of the chair. He removed his t-shirt, boots and socks the same way, slow and precise.

Dean watched, slightly squinting as if peering into the sun. When Sam was down to just his jeans, belly sucked in because it was hot, being the center of Dean’s attention, he went over and embraced Dean once more.

“Hmm,” Dean murmured, hugging right back. “You feel good.”

Sam sighed. Soft flannel and cotton against his naked skin—the contrast made him shudder. “You do, too.” Slowly, he walked Dean back to the bed and pushed him down. He knelt and ran his palms up Dean’s thighs and then back down so he could take off Dean’s boots and socks. “Seventy-two hours give or take.” Off with the boots. “What should we do first?” And then the socks.

Dean tucked Sam’s hair back behind his ear. “I don’t care.”

“So you’d be okay with just watching TV for the rest of the night?”

“Sure.”

Sam pressed his chin into Dean’s palm because he should have known. For all that big talk of love ‘em and leave ‘em, Dean was a closet romantic. He _would _be fine watching a movie or just hanging out, as long as they did it together. If there was a beach anywhere nearby, that’s where they’d be, hand in hand and— “Dean?”

“Hm?”

This was probably gonna break the mood but he had to know… He looked up and asked, “Do you miss Lisa?”

Yeah, that broke it; the soft expression on Dean’s face fled. He dropped his hand. “Do you really want to have that conversation now?”

_‘No.’ _“Yeah. It’s time and I want to because—” Sam shrugged.

“Because who knows what will happen in seventy-three hours?”

Sam nodded. “I’ll go first because I want you to know…” He sat back on his heels. “I still miss Jess and Amelia. I still love them.”

“Sam, of course you do.”

“Which means you still miss Lisa.”

“I do. I always will, at least a little.” Dean sighed and propped his elbows on his knees. “It was never gonna last—I can see that now. Lisa was funny and smart and sexy. She and Ben loved me and I loved them.”

Sam digested that, wondering if he was hurt or jealous.

“The thing you gotta remember was when I showed up at Lisa’s door, I was all kinds of messed up. You were gone and I was—” Dean clasped his hands and bowed his head. “I’d shouted myself hoarse at every crossroads I could find. I ran out of yarrow and grave dirt. No one would take my soul, not even for a day. Even Crowley was MIA and if that isn’t pathetic, I don’t—”

Sam covered Dean’s hands, prying his fingers apart, loosening his white-knuckled grip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” He should never have brought it up—he remembered those soulless days but vaguely, as if they were lived by another Sam. “But I’m glad it turned out the way it did.”

“Why?”

“Because then I would’ve had to make a deal to get _you_ out.” He forced a smile. “And that would be one more marker for us to pay.”

Dean considered that, then muttered, “What a pair we make.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s hand. “We do. We _do _make a good pair.”

Dean raised his head. His eyes were shiny wet. He opened his mouth and then his gaze flickered off to the side. “Since we’re being so honest here, I want to know—”

“Yeah?” Sam asked when Dean didn’t finish.

Dean hesitated, and then shook his head. “No,” he said, pulling back with a little smile. “It’s not a big deal. You already told me—I hurt you so you hurt me.”

On the bad end of that smile, Sam knew exactly what that reflex meant—it meant that Dean didn’t want to hear the answer, that it would break him just that much more if it was the reply was the wrong reply. And that could only mean… “Is this about what happened after Gadreel?”

“It’s fine, Sam.

“I—” Sam searched for the words. “It was more than that and I don’t know how to…”

“Sam, it’s okay.”

Sam wrenched Dean’s hands. “Stop that!”

Dean grew still. “Stop what?”

“You know what, that— That—” Sam drew a long, shaky breath. “Listen, I’d just killed a friend, someone I was supposed to protect and I was so angry with you, with mysel—”

“Sam, it’s okay,” Dean said again. “I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

Sam moved closer, inching between Dean’s knees. “I don’t think you understand. When I said those things, I think some part of me said them because I knew you could take it. I was like… Like, lighting ready to strike but I was so busy lying to myself, to you, that I didn’t know what to do with it all.” He gave Dean a bent smile because this next part was shameful and bitter. “I threw it all at you because I _could _and I’m completely honest with myself, I was waiting for you to leave so I’d be in the right. I pushed and I pushed but you _didn’t _leave. You stuck with me and I—”

He shrugged again, helplessly because that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Through all that shit with Lucifer, with Ruby and Lilith, Dean had been relentless and dogged. The only time he’d given up had been when he’d been afraid of what the Mark was doing to him, afraid that he’d turn that insanity on Sam. Protection by leaving, that was Dean in a nutshell. It used to make Sam so very angry…

“Did I break the mood?”

“What?” Sam looked up. “No. Well,” he amended with a small smile, “yeah, but I broke it first.”

“Yeah, you did,” Dean agreed though his voice was kind. “Hey, I’ve got something for you.” He inched sideways and then stood up. “But I’m warning you, if you make fun of me, you’re not getting any of this…” Up and down, Dean gestured at his body. “…for the foreseeable future.” And then he was gone, quickly padding out the door with a, “Be right back.”

Sam got up. He should put his shirt back on because he felt slightly stupid, standing there in Dean’s room, half naked. He rubbed his chest and looked around. Then, deciding it _was_ sorta stupid but he was gonna go with it, he muttered, “Screw it” and lay down on the bed.

Dean was gone long enough for Sam to get bored. He picked up the magazine Dean had been reading—another glossy classic motorcycle publication—and was leafing through it when Dean returned.

Edging backwards through the door, his arms full, Dean said, “Do you know there’s a whole shelf of party favors in the pantry. Some are kind of racy. Makes you wonder what the Men of Letters got up to on poker ni…” Dean turned and he trailed off, his eyes widening when he caught sight of Sam. “Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to me.” He closed the door with his elbow.

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned back to toss the magazine on the nightstand, then froze. “Wait, really? It’s Valentine’s Day? Already?”

“It was a few weeks ago.”

He sat up and scooted back as Dean piled the stuff on the bed: the champagne, glasses and gift bag, as well as cheese and a box of those fancy crackers, the kind with baked-in sesame seeds and cracked pepper. “You do know the kitchen is twenty feet away, right?” He reached for the gift bag. “What’s that?”

Dean snatched it away. “Something you’re not getting because you’re being a douche.”

Sam half smiled. Dean’s words were harsh but his tone was not. “I am not. What is it?” He leaned forward again.

Dean got off the bed and backed away. “Nope. And you’re not getting any crackers, either.”

Sam followed. “C’mon, Dean, what’s in the bag?”

With no warning, Dean bolted. Sam leaped and caught him against the door but Dean elbowed him and got away. Backing towards the bed, Dean held the bag out of Sam’s reach. Sam tried once more.

It was fun, like when they were kids, playful with some force but not really. They grappled, Dean laughing, Sam finally winning when he hooked his leg behind Dean’s knee and yanked.

They went down with a, “Hey!” from Dean and a woof of laughter from Sam.

Sam grabbed the gift bag and rolled off Dean, and then climbed onto the bed. He shook out the bag’s contents, spilling them onto the blanket. It was nothing much, just four small boxes of candy hearts, the cheap kind kids give out at school. “Okay,” he said. “I get that it’s Valentine’s Day but why—” He picked up the box. “Oh.”

That time when he was six or seven. He couldn’t remember the town, just that everyone wore cowboy boots and it was hot and it wasn’t supposed to be hot because it was February. Dad had dropped them off at a Woolworth’s so they could get supplies for the first-aid kit before they got back on the road. Dean had headed straight to the back where the bandages and alcohol were but Sam stopped by a stand of Valentine’s Day candy. Long boxes with ribbons and smaller boxes in the shape of hearts, they were far too expensive. Even the miniature boxes with the illustrations of candy hearts that said, _‘Be Mine,’ _were too much money.

Sam searched his pockets even though he knew he had only four cents and an Indian head penny. So, five cents only not, because he’d found the penny the day before and wanted to add it to his collection.

Dean had come by right then and said, _‘I’ve got the stuff. Let’s go.’_

Sam held the box up. _‘I want this,’ _he’d said.

_‘We can’t afford it,’_ Dean replied.

_“I’ve got four cents.’_

_‘Which means you’re six cents short and I don’t have any extra money.’_

_‘I _want _this.’_

_‘Sammy, we can’t afford it. I don’t have any money.’ _Dean took the box and turned it over to look at the price. _‘Who’s it for, anyway?’_

_‘Cindy Wilson.’ _Cindy Wilson had dark skin and brown eyes and whenever she looked at Sam, she smiled. It didn’t matter that Sam hadn’t seen her in months. It didn’t matter that she was far away in Montana.

Dean had put the box back on the stand and grabbed Sam’s hand. _‘That school is a hundred miles away and we can’t afford it. C’mon.’ _

But that hadn’t been the end of the story, though those five minutes illustrated how destitute they’d been. It had really been a case in point as to how far Dean would go to make Sam happy, because later on, staying in some nameless motel while Dad was meeting with Pastor Jim, Dean had gone out, saying he wanted a soda and would be back by seven. At six-thirty, he’d returned and went to the table where Sam was studying and emptied his coat pockets._ ‘You can’t give them to Cindy,’_ Dean had said, stacking the four candy boxes on top of each other, _‘but if you hold onto them, you can give them to the next girl at the next school.’_

Sam had whooped and closed his books. He gathered the boxes up and he and Dean had watched TV while they ate all the candy because that was only fair. Another girl might come along, but Dean was there now.

The same cheap hearts that said so much more than the cheesy words printed on them. “Did you pay for them or use a five-finger discount?” Sam mumbled as he turned a box over.

Still on the floor, Dean said, “Like I wanna get thrown into jail for stealing a dollar’s worth of candy.”

Sam bent his lips in a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Well someone had to. Hell would freeze over before you—” Dean broke off with shrug. “You know.”

Sam stretched sideways and put the candy on the nightstand. Yeah, he wasn’t as romantic as Dean but he had his good points; he touched the bed and said as sexily as he knew how, “Feel like finding out how strong this headboard is?”

Dean’s eyes lit up; he scrambled to his feet.

So they didn’t walk on a beach or watch TV—they had sex, Sam riding Dean because they’d never tried it that way. It was awkward and painful but also amazing. Sam kept forgetting to hold on to the headboard, holding on to Dean instead. With an arch and then a muffled groan of, “Sammy,” Dean came first. Sam took longer, wanting not to give in, unable not to when Dean finally took him in hand and muttered, “Gotta keep up, Sam…”

***

“So,” Dean said, his eyes still closed. “The Men of Letters did good with that headboard, huh?”

Half on Dean, mostly asleep, Sam huffed a laugh and then murmured, “Yeah, they did.”

***

They got up soon after, dressed in only what they needed for decency’s sake because, like Dean said, it felt creepy to be too naked in a place where dudes used to wear sweater vests. They had a late dinner of soup and salad. After, they went Sam’s room to start the second season of Game of Thrones.

Compared to Dean’s room, Sam’s was a mess with the unmade bed, books everywhere and clothes on the chair. “I forgot there was only this one chair,” he said, piling the clothes on top of the dresser. “Do you want to move the TV upstairs?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean grabbed the remote and the DVDs. “Those jerks would roll in their graves if we desecrated their precious library. No…” He slipped the disk in the player and then made himself comfortable on the bed. “Right here, Sam.” He even patted the bedspread.

Sam sat next to Dean. Shoulder to shoulder, he tried to concentrate on the show and not Dean. He kept losing the thread of the plot, though, only half aware of what was going on as he tried to relax. But then Dean put his arm around Sam’s shoulders and Sam slid sideways. It should have felt weird, curled up against Dean like they were a real couple, but it wasn’t—it was as natural as breathing. By the time they were finished with the second episode, Sam had forgotten any self-consciousness and was using Dean as a pillow, his back to Dean’s front, Dean’s arm around his waist.

“Okay, I’m confused—why did he have sex with that chick?” Dean took the remote from Sam and turned off the TV.

Sam sighed. “I knew you weren’t paying attention. It was because his wife is barren and he wants a son.”

“I _was_ paying attention but why did he want a boy? From what I’ve seen, the girls are as good as guys.”

“That’s one of the main points of Game of Thrones but the guy’s a dick and wants a son.”

“I guess,” Dean said slowly. “That Cersei, though—she’s a bitch and a half.” He set the remote on the night table.

Sam stilled, thinking for the first time about Cersei’s relationship with Jaime. For the most part, he and Dean had skated over this issue for so long… “Yeah, she is,” he said and waited.

Sure enough, Dean cleared his throat and then said, “So, Cersei and Jaime…”

“Yeah.”

“That’s one fucked up family.”

Sam twisted around so he could see Dean’s face. Dean was staring off to the side. “Yeah, but that’s not us. We may be fucked up but we don’t hate each other.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

“I know what you’re talking about but, if you think I care what other people think, you’re nuts.” When Dean didn’t respond, Sam shrugged his mental shoulders, remembering _in for a penny_. “Okay, so answer this—which do you think would horrify people more: the fact that we sleep together or the fact that we both died and were brought back to life? And never mind that,” he added, on a roll now, “we hunt _monsters_, Dean, things that most people don’t even believe exist. Dad said it all those years ago—if people found out about vampires and werewolves, there would be sheer chaos and a lot of people would die. Whole _governments _might collapse.” He shrugged again, this time for real. “Compared to that, you and me don’t matter.”

“You make it sound so simple but it really isn’t, Sam.”

“Nothing about our lives have ever been simple, Dean. Which means everything has been simple, you know?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, professor.”

“Dean,” Sam began, sorting out the excuses and rationalizations as he tried to explain what he knew to be true. “From the time I was little, you and Dad had a plan for me. When I did try to break away, you brought me back. Every single time.”

Dean’s tone was bitter. “Because I don’t want to be alone?”

Sam grimaced, just slightly. “That was essentially true but I should have said it better.”

“No, you said it right and now you’re saying you can never get away from me.” Dean tried to push Sam off.

Sam refused to be pushed. “Listen to me. Listen and hear me—yeah, you don’t want to be alone but that’s because I’m it for you. I’m the one that makes things better, that reminds you who you are. I know it and I’m okay with it ‘cause you do the same for me. If I wanted to be gone, I’d be gone. It’s that simple.” He swallowed because this was gonna hurt. “I told you a long time ago there was something wrong with me. I thought the Metatron’s trials were purifying me but that wasn’t it at all. It was you—your love saved me. It has every time and I don’t care what you call i—”

Dean elbowed Sam and untangled himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. But he didn’t make for the door. He just muttered a gravelly, “Sammy, stop.”

Again, Sam refused; he slid up behind Dean. “No, listen. We’re more than what we were born into. I _know_ it. But I’m done with trying to make you see it so I’m gonna just stay by your side until you believe it, too.”

Dean had stilled. “And?”

“And we’re gonna hunt until we can’t hunt anymore. After that, we’ll retire and find some farm in the middle of nowhere. Or we’ll stay here in the bunker. I don’t really care. We’ll still help people but we’ll do it the regular way.”

Dean had listened in silence but his tone was still harsh and angry when he said, “You think that’ll go down in small town America? Two brothers playing house?”

“No one will know and I told you: I’m not gonna worry about it. Life is too short.”

“It’ll be a lot shorter if—” Dean made a small sound, then said, “So this perfect life you’ve got planned for us—what’re we gonna do if we’re not hunting?”

“I have no idea. You can work on cars and I’ll get an online degree. Maybe in legal aid or something.”

Dean was silent for a moment and then he asked, “And kids?”

Sam shrugged. “I’ve never wanted kids, not like you. I’m fine with our bloodline ending with us. If you want to adopt, I’ll be their uncle. If you meet someone that can give you a more normal life and you want to stay with her, I’ll back off but I won’t leave.”

“You’d be okay with that? Me and some girl?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam said, resting against Dean’s back, wondering if he was lying. “If it’s what you really want. But when we’re done—I mean _finally _done—I want my burned bones to be mixed with yours.” He’d sort of pictured it before but the image was never fully complete. Now it was, how it had to be with him and Dean, together forever. “I’m not leaving you again.” Dean was silent but he was shaking and Sam realized he was trying not to cry. “I love you. As much as you love me, I love you.”

Dean pushed again—twisting towards Sam, not away. And he wasn’t crying but his mouth was twisted and his eyes were squinty and damp. “Sammy.”

Sam leaned around kissed Dean, tasting salt and sadness and a future that only had a slim chance of success.

But fuck all that—it was what he wanted and this moment was his own personal Rubicon and he was gonna celebrate the hell out of it. So, wordlessly, he removed Dean’s clothes, handling him as if he were made of glass and any wrong move would break him into a thousand pieces. When Dean was naked and lying there, touching his chest and watching Sam like a hawk, Sam got naked, too.

He didn’t have to ask what Dean wanted. He simply got the small tube of slick out of his backpack and went back to bed. Dean helped by not helping, passively shifting when Sam urged him to move, lifting here, sliding there. Sam took his time in preparing Dean, using one finger, then two and three, studying Dean, his subtle reactions, the way sweat broke out on his upper lip, the way his breath hitched when Sam twisted his fingers and then kissed his hip.

So sexy, so familiar and thrilling because it was kind of like he was on a hunt and Dean was his prey. He’d been chasing this particular quarry for so long, circling the same spot, never realizing what he really wanted, never getting that he’d had his prize in the palm of his hand… He licked a line along Dean’s floating ribs and mumbled against Dean’s skin, “Now?”

Dean grabbed Sam’s forearm, drawing his fingers out. “Now, Sammy.”

The thrill became a streak of fire. Sam slipped between Dean’s thighs and tugged Dean’s hips, positioning him just right. One try and then two and he was in Dean. He swallowed at the sensation and let it settle in but not overwhelm. They fit so well, him and Dean, like they were made for each other. He pushed.

Dean groaned and tipped his head back. He bit his lip. “Sam…”

There was no way he was gonna get through this with Dean looking up at him like that, so Sam closed his eyes and fucked Dean blind, all response to Dean’s moans and hushed, _‘Sams.’ _On the edge, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, Sam cheated and opened his eyes. Dean smiled and rocked up and wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist and that was all it—

***

In his own fugue state, Sam was aware when Dean got up and turned off the TV, when he left and came back minutes later with a warm washcloth. Sam stirred and muttered, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean whispered. “Hold on.”

In a minute or an hour, Dean was done and Sam was cold again. He fished around for the blankets and felt Dean instead, getting back in bed.

“Turn over, Sam.”

Sam turned over and Dean pulled the sheet and blankets up, then spooned behind.

“Go to sleep, Sam.”

Smiling, Sam went to sleep.

____________________________

In the grand scheme of things, their seventy-two hours was like a blip on the cosmic clock, here and gone. They lived the days and nights never far from each other’s side. They didn’t talk much, and when they did, the topics were of the shallow, benign variety. They made no mention of the Mark or the outside world.

Sam marked the time with purpose, imprinting each experience on his soul: feeling Dean’s laughter through the whole of him as they watched a Three Stooges movie; going down on Dean in the supply closet near the garage because it had been three hours and he was hungry all over again; sneaking up on Dean in the showers and then catching him when he jumped and slipped. That last one was one of the best, water-wet, the air filled with steam, Dean had pushed into Sam while he held onto to the metal soap dish. They came about the same time, both sliding down against green tile to a huddle of slick, heavy limbs. Dean made a dirty joke about an octopus and Sam had tried to laugh.

So, seventy-two hours that wasn’t really seventy-two because it was only seventy-one when they got the call.

____________________________

“Your shorts are still in my room.”

“Not anymore they aren’t,” Sam replied.

Dean hmphed and added, “What about those towels in my shower—did you get them?”

“Yeah, and the ones in your bathroom.”

Dean ran a hand over his hair. “I’ll do a wash tonight.”

“James isn’t gonna want a shower, Dean.”

Dean got to his feet and paced towards the steps. “James just flew thousands of miles to see us, Sam. The only polite thing to do would be to offer the guy a shower.”

Sitting at the library table in front of his laptop so he could pretend to be working, Sam’s jaw dropped.

Dean paused as if realizing how stupid that sounded. “You know what I mean.”

Sam snorted. “I don’t think I do.”

“Whatever.” Dean paced to the table. “We should have picked him up at the airport.”

“Cas wanted to.”

Dean paced back to the steps. “We should have gone to the store.”

“We didn’t eat half the things you bought the other day. There’s still all that fruit and those vegetables and the frozen pizza and the lasagna thing.”

“I’m saving the lasagna thing for us.”

Sam sighed. Dean had his arms around his chest and was facing the stairs like he was facing a firing squad. “We can get another. Why are you so worried?”

Dean shot back, “Why are you not?”

Sam twisted, then leaned over and grabbed Dean’s pocket. He yanked. Dean stumbled back and dropped to sit on Sam’s thighs.

“What the—?” Dean tried to stand; Sam held him down. “I am not sitting in your lap, Sam!”

“Looks like you are.” Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and buried his face in flannel. “You smell good.”

“It’s that stupid fabric softener you made me buy.” Dean huffed a sigh and then stopped struggling; he covered Sam’s hand. “Okay, but if anyone asks, I didn’t sit in your lap, you sat in mine.”

“I sure did,” Sam said, remembering Dean fucking him on the cold floor of the garage, tight up against the Impala. “It was great.”

Dean snorted. He stroked the back of Sam’s hand. “Why _aren’t_ you worried?”

He was. He was quietly freaking out, unable to stop the memory of, _‘This thing between you and me, maybe it’s because of Magnus…’ _“Because I think James can help us. Because it’ll be one step closer to getting that thing off your arm.”

“Yeah.” Dean stroked some more, then asked, “Think we should have gotten some dog food?”

Sam laughed and rubbed his cheek against Dean’s back. “I’m pretty sure Portia eats human food. Besides…” He shifted because Dean was heavy. “…she might not be with him.”

“Yeah, but maybe we should go get some kib—”

The upstairs door opened and a Doberman pincer trotted across the landing.

Like magic or as if his legs had turned into springs, Dean was across the room, standing by one of the pillars. Sam got up and rubbed his ribs; in his haste to get away, Dean had got him in the side. “Portia,” he said to the dog, now at the foot of the stairs.

Portia looked at Dean and Sam, then shifted, melding up and into her human form. “Boys,” she said.

“I never get tired of that,” Dean said, staring a little too hard.

Portia pursed her lips and turned to call up the stairs. “It’s all right!”

“Dude…” Sam hissed, shaking his head though he couldn’t really blame Dean for staring—Portia was as beautiful as ever, wearing black pants, a black sweater, and a cherry-red wool coat. “It’s good to see you.”

“What’d you think we were gonna do, ambush you?” Dean said as he met Portia by the stairs. He looked up when James and Castiel came through the door. “You expected an ambush?”

“I expected nothing, Dean,” James said. “Portia on the other hand…”

“I’m just doing my job,” Portia said, giving Dean an even glance.

“I think you’re a lot more dangerous to us than we are to you,” Dean muttered, holding his hand out as James reached the foot of the stairs.

James shook Dean’s hand, then Sam’s. “How are you, Sam?”

“I’m okay,” Sam said, a rote answer, not asking James the same because James looked a little worn out. Maybe it was just jetlag. “How was the trip?”

“Fine. I’ve never had an angelic chauffeur before, so that was interesting. We talked about the nature of the fruit fly.”

Castiel nodded. “It _is _very interesting. They have such short lives but they live each moment.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Sam smiled and gestured towards the tables. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you, but a chair sounds great.” James followed Sam and Dean up to the tables. “And I think you’re wrong, Dean. According to my sources, there are a lot of demons, vampires and werewolves that would argue your point about relative danger.”

“Not to mention witches,” Portia added under her breath.

Sam sat down, not surprised when Dean took the seat next to Castiel on the other side of the table.

“Yeah, we’ve been busy,” Dean admitted right as Sam asked, “What sources?”

James held a chair out for Portia, then took off his coat and seated himself next to Sam. “You have your hunter network, we have ours.”

“That’s cool,” Dean said with false thoughtfulness. “You guys share recipes and spells?”

“Dean,” Sam said.

“As a matter of fact, we do,” James replied, “even though I’m not an official part of the network.”

Dean smiled sweetly. “Still on the run?”

Portia answered that one, “He will be for a long time thanks to you.”

Dean opened his mouth but Sam got there first, “Dean, come on.” He knew why Dean was being such an ass, but that kind of attitude wasn’t going to help.

Dean’s smirk faded away. “Yeah, okay.”

James leaned forward. “Your friend filled me in on the way from Wichita but I’d like to hear the chain of events from you.”

With his eyes firmly fixed on the table, Dean began to talk.

***

Dean spoke in short, abrupt sentences, giving the whys and hows of his time with Magnus. If Sam didn’t know better, he’d think that Dean had been perfectly fine with being chained up and suborned by another’s will. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view—Sam knew better.

“So you have no concrete evidence of any kind, yes? No video or audio?” James asked for the second time.

“No,” Sam answered for Dean. “Nothing.”

James rubbed his jaw. “All right. Dean—can you describe in detail how it felt the second after he performed the spell? I mean the split second.”

“It felt like nothing,” came Dean’s quick reply. And then he frowned and shrugged. “Well, I guess it felt like something dropped over me. Like an invisible blanket that melted into my bones.”

“And it didn’t hurt?”

“No, I told you, it just happened.” Dean raised his head. “But that’s not really true, either, because it did. Sort of.”

James leaned forward. “How?”

“I don’t know. Like I was suffocating only I could still breathe. After he put me under for the third time, I just stopped caring.”

“Third time?” Sam interrupted, reaching across the table. “You told me he did it once. And you didn’t tell me it hurt!”

“Yeah, well…” Dean shrugged. “You were freaking out and I didn’t want you to freak out, all right?” When Sam didn’t answer, he repeated, “All right?”

Sam sat back, muscles tense. “Yeah, all right.”

“So,” James continued as he glanced from Sam to Dean. “It hurt and he cast the spell more than once. Which leads to the big question—can you remember the words and the substance he used?”

Dean actually laughed. “Knew you were gonna ask me that.” He rubbed his jaw. “He didn’t use any powder but I’ve been trying to remember the words…” He frowned and touched his arm. “I think it was something like _mentos too am volunt_ something.” He glanced up at James. “That ring any bells?”

“‘Too am; could be ‘tuam’ which is Latin for ‘your.’ ‘Volunt something’ has to refer to ‘will’ because volun means ‘will.’”

“Does that help?” Sam asked before Dean could.

“It does, sort of. But if I use the wrong words in the wrong order, it could have disastrous effects.”

Sam pressed his lips tight. “So in other words, no.”

James started to answer when Castiel spoke for the first time, “Try to remember, Dean. Was there a certain scent that stood out? Anything will help.”

Dean ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t remember, Cas.”

“Yes, but—”

“Cas, the next time some douche tells you he’s lonely and wants you to be his forever boyfriend, you try to keep up in the memorization depart—”

“What?” Sam said, leaning forward once more, gripping the table because, _what? _“You never told me that, either!”

“Because I knew what you’d say,” Dean answered, speaking to everyone but Sam.

“Dean—”

“Sam, will you just—”

“Guys,” James interrupted softly.

Sam shut up and Dean shut up.

James turned. “Castiel, could you give us five or ten minutes? You too, Portia.”

Portia stood up. “I’ll get your kit.”

James smiled. “Thank you.”

Castiel clearly wanted to stay, but he escorted Portia back up the stairs. As they got to the landing, he said something that made Portia laugh.

“James—” Dean began.

“Dean,” James said. “I’m not here to pry but I’ve found over the years that magical acts can be deadly if the situation is something other than it is. Counter and redaction spells are tricky because they work in a process of three: identification, removal, restoration. If I’m operating under false assumptions, I can make things worse.”

Even Dean’s smirk was tense. “And that’s your long-ass way of saying what?”

James’s even tone sharpened. “It’s my long-ass way of asking why are you so jumpy? Did you sleep with the witch?”

Sam pressed his lips together; he turned to Dean.

Dean blinked and then laughed. “Oh, hell, no.”

“Are you sure?”

“James,” Dean said easily. “I’m sure. I mean, he could’ve molested me while I was out that first time, but I think I would have noticed.”

Sam cocked his head. He wasn’t quite sure which feeling was greater, his rage or outrage. That Magnus would _dare_… “Would you have, though? It took Crowley and me hours to figure out the spell. What did you two do in all that time?”

“You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Dean asked very quietly, his false grin fading. “Are you, Sammy?”

“I really don’t think you’re one to—”

And it happened again, a full-out zombification—Dean stilled, all expression leaching from his features.

Rage and outrage forgotten, Sam jumped to his feet and hurried around the table. “Dean?” He jerked the chair sideways and dropped to sit on his heels so he could cup Dean’s cheek. “Don’t do this me, not now.” There was no reply and he rubbed Dean’s jaw with his thumb. “C’mon…”

Dean shivered. “You’re not suggest—” He blinked again and looked down at Sam. Once more his expression changed; he slapped Sam’s hands away and then shoved, his cheeks flushing a bright red. Sam fell on his ass as Dean growled, “Jesus, Sam, don’t—” He strangled on whatever he’d been going to say, shooting a quick look at James.

“It’s okay,” James said. “I know.”

Dean sputtered. “What did you— There was nothing to— God _damn_it,” he ended wearily. “There was nothing _to_ know, all right?”

Sam got to his feet and brushed off his jeans. He was as angry as Dean. “He knows, Dean. Get over it.”

“So now _you’re_ mad?” Dean demanded. “You’re feeling me up in front—”

Sam threw his hand up, palm towards Dean. “Just— Just shut up for a minute.”

Dean snapped his mouth shut which was kind of a surprise because his face was still red, his eyes almost sparking fire.

Sam turned to James. “So there’s your concrete evidence. What do you think?”

“Well,” James said, getting his cell out. “It was exactly as you described, as if Dean’s spirit just blipped in and out of existence.” He typed a message. “I’m asking Portia and Castiel to come back in.”

Dean cleared his throat. “James—”

“Don’t worry.” James glanced at Dean. “I can keep a secret.” He put the cell away. “Though I think your angel is fairly observant and it was Portia that brought it to my attention in the first place.”

Dean dropped his head into his hands. “Great. That’s just great.”

“You know…” Sam backed up a step. “I gotta…” He jerked his thumb towards the stairs. “I gotta go turn off the stove.”

It was a stupid excuse but neither Dean nor James stopped him and he marched down stairs and kept going until he got to his room. He slammed the door shut, just because he knew it would feel good. It felt great and he did it again, then paced in a circle, waiting for the anger to dial back. It didn’t, and he was looking around for something to throw when the door opened. He stopped pacing and turned to face Dean.

Dean gave him a sheepish shrug and then closed the door and sat on the bed.

It was one of their normal,_ I’m not gonna speak first so you better _silences until Sam couldn’t stand it. He crossed his arms over his chest and said the last thing he would have thought he’d say: “Did you fuck Magnus?”

Dean didn’t even look shocked. Elbows on knees, he shook his head and said to the floor, “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but he was a witch. He could have just done another spell or something.”

“And he really wanted you to stay with him because he was lonely?”

“It wasn’t like that, Sammy.”

“It was exactly like that, Dean,” Sam shot back, pointing his finger ‘cause, yeah, it was.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah, okay, it was. If I’d said yes, sex probably would have come into play at some point. He was kind of a freak that way.”

“_‘Freak?’ _Are you saying that you and me…” Sam tried again, “Do you really thin—”

“No, of course not,” Dean interrupted. “He was weird—you know that.”

Sam nodded, remember Magnus, stuck in time, warped by brilliance and arrogance and loneliness. “So…” Sam took a seat beside Dean. “What did James say?”

“He said he was certain he knew how to fix me.”

“Was that all?”

Dean finally looked at Sam. “No. He said and I quote: _‘_I’m in love with a woman who spends part of her day as a dog—how disapproving do you think I’m gonna be?’”

“Oh,” Sam said, the fury finally withering. “I never thought about that.”

“Me, neither. He also said that previous stupid comments aside, I hadn’t judged him because I wouldn’t have asked him for help in the first place.” Dean chuckled. “Apparently being a witch doesn’t make him all knowing because I did judge him. But don’t tell him that.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I didn’t think of that, either.” Dean leaned against Sam.

Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s waist. “I’m sorry I got so angry.”

Dean shrugged again. “You were jealous. It makes you cranky.”

Sam breathed a laugh and then nodded because it was true even though there was more to his anger than jealousy. “So, what’s the plan?”

***

The plan was surprisingly simple but James needed one thing that Sam and Dean weren’t sure they could get.

“It’s cold,” Dean muttered for the second or third time.

“I know,” Sam whispered and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Maybe we should wait in the car.”

“That would be rude.”

Dean huffed and his breath froze in the cold air. “Why would that be rude, Sam?”

Sam gestured to what Dean kept calling, _‘Magnus’s porch.’ _Twenty feet away, James was kneeling before a wide copper basin while Portia waited by his side in her Doberman form. “Because James and Portia are trying to open Magus’s portal so we can get inside Magnus’s lair so he can perform the spell in the place it was cast, Dean. It would be rude to leave them alone while they did it.”

Dean was silent for a moment and then he whispered, “I don’t see why Cas can’t just try again.”

“Because his mojo is on the fritz.”

“Well then, I don’t see why we just can’t use the spell you used. I mean before when you and Crowley…” He shrugged and pressed his lips together. “You know what I mean.”

“Because James said Magnus’s death put a lockdown on the house,” Sam reminded Dean. “And Cas couldn’t find a Westphalian albino hart’s tertiary horn.”

“The third horn from a mythical German deer,” Dean muttered. “We should have just tried a cow’s horn.”

“Dean—”

“Why are you both whispering?” Castiel said, not whispering, from Dean’s other side.

Sam leaned to peer around Dean. “We don’t want them to hear us, Cas.”

“We can hear you,” James called out without moving. “You’re not as quiet as you think you are.” Portia had turned her head and was giving them her dog’s glare.

Dean elbowed Sam and muttered, “See?”

Sam would have elbowed back because how was this his fault, but now Dean was shivering in the cold. So he just smiled weakly at Portia and reached for Dean’s hand. Dean made a sound and tried to pull back. Sam refused and stuffed their twined hands in his own pocket. It was a little strange, out in the open as they were, but Dean eventually stopped tugging.

“You think this will work?” Dean asked after a moment.

“It makes sense,” Sam replied. “Magnus’s entire house was bewitched, right? It makes sense that we’d have to remove the spell in the same place it was cast.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, but—” Dean’s objection was lost as the air warmed and the light shivered.

Like before, Sam heard a rumble before the ground shook and rocked. Like before, false foam rose in a mass of pink and grey and blue. A door appeared.

“Finally,” Dean said.

Sam elbowed him in the ribs.

***

He’d half expected the house to be full of cobwebs and the smell of death but Sam was startled to find everything was much the same. Same elegant furnishings, same sense of solitude. Everything was the same, except… “What happened to that sword?” he asked as he stood in the middle of the living room. Near the fireplace, the brackets that had once held a seven-foot sword were empty.

“Probably Crowley,” Dean said. “Him being a dick, and all.”

Sam shrugged uneasily. He didn’t remember Crowley stealing anything but it had been a crazy time after Dean had chopped off Magnus’s head. Crowley had murmured something about taking care of Magnus’s animals while Sam had watched Dean like a worried hawk. He remembered wondering what fresh hell they’d just stepped into because Dean had been shaking like he’d caught a cold.

“I thought you said Magnus collected rare items?”

Sam jerked and so did Dean. Castiel was standing behind them, looking all around and it was only after hearing Castiel’s voice that Sam realized that he and Dean had been speaking so low they were almost whispering.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean growled. “Shout, why don’t you?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t shouting. I spoke in a normal tone and mentioned it as there is nothing here of any value.” He glanced around again. “In fact, other than that small Monet in the corner, one could purchase all these items on Amazon.”

Sam was about to mention Crowley when Dean asked, “How do you know about Amazon?”

“How does one _not _know about Amazon, Dean?” Castiel asked.

Not wanting to be in the middle of a Dean-Castiel back-and-forth that ending up being about nothing, Sam interrupted, “We were just saying the same thing, Cas—Crowley must have taken the good stuff.”

Castiel nodded slowly as he looked around. “Is there nothing that creature won’t do?”

“Well, he is a demon, Cas,” Dean said with a sarcastic twist of his lips. “That’s kind of his MO.”

Whether or not Castiel had an answer for that was moot because just then, Portia trotted in.

She transformed into her human guise and signaled. “Gentlemen? James is ready.”

Giving the room one last glance, Sam nodded. “Anything about this seem right to you?” he whispered as they trooped out.

“Not a damn thing,” Dean said, just as low.

***

They followed Portia down the hall and around a few corners until they came to an open door. Then it was down a long concrete staircase until they came to another door. This one led to a huge room.

Clearly a lab, the room was flooded with bright light and it took Sam a moment to realize it was because the left wall wasn’t a wall at all. Or rather, it was a wall made of floor-to-ceiling glass with a door in the middle. Beyond was a sunny yard complete with elm trees, a pond and some patio furniture. The room itself was filled with all sorts of lab equipment: black-topped-tables, metal shelves, metal cabinets. James waited by one of the tables.

“If he was just gonna make a fake room with a fake backyard and a fake pond, why didn’t he just do it upstairs?” Dean said as he touched a steel cart. “Why does he need a backyard, anyway?”

“It’s not a fake room,” Sam corrected. “And maybe he was just going with what he was use to—most of the labs at the bunker are downstairs.”

Dean pushed the cart. It made a loud screeching sound and everyone looked at him. He gave Sam an irritated scowl that turned into a sheepish shrug. “James?” he yelled. “You got something for us?”

James held up a book. “I believe so.”

“What is it?” Dean asked as soon as they were gathered round.

James set the book on the table and opened it so they could all see. “Cuthbert Sinclair’s workbook, volume thirty-five.”

They all leaned over to examine the book.

The blue-lined pages were filled with meticulous, slanted writing, interspersed by meticulously-drawn illustrations. The spell in question was an antidote to the binding spell, titled: _‘Cuthbert Sinclair: Capistro and Libero Charm.’_

Dean shifted; his arm touched Sam’s. Immediately, he shifted again, this time away from Sam. “What kind of maniac writes down their secret spells?”

James snorted softly. “The kind of maniac that believed the rest of the world was doomed and only he could save it.”

“Yeah, Magnus was kind of a douche,” Dean said.

“Based on his notes, he sorta was,” James said, looking up to grin at Dean. “The entire first volume is a manifesto about how all his brothers were willfully ignorant and going to die because of their stupidity.”

Sam straightened up. “He wasn’t wrong.”

Dean frowned and angled his head to glance up at Sam. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They all died because they didn’t prepare.”

“They died because of a mistake some nun made a long time ago.”

Julia Wilkinson. She’d been so ashamed, even after all those years. Yes, she should have acted but couldn’t that be said for all of them, especially himself? “That’s true but don’t forget about our grandfather. If he’d locked the door behind him, none of this would’ve happened.”

Dean straightened up too. “That wasn’t Henry’s fault, Sam. He had no id—”

“Whether he knew or not isn’t the point,” Sam threw back. “He should have—”

“Guys?” Castiel was holding up a glass paperweight. “Is this getting us anywhere?”

Sam closed his mouth and glared at Dean. Dean glared right back.

“As I was saying…” James turned the book back around. “Sinclair very conveniently gave us the reversal spell. It’s formed of two components, verbal and physical. It will take me twenty or thirty minutes to grind the roots and bones we need and then mix the whole thing. After that, the powder has to fix in the sun of high noon for fifty-six seconds. It must be applied within five minutes.”

Sam glanced at the backyard. So that was the reason and he couldn’t help give Dean a side-eye. Dean’s jaw set but Sam recognized the guilty, shifty, _‘oh’ _look for what it was. That realization didn’t help because something was going on. Dean was giving off signals long familiar to Sam. Some surfacing tension was making him jumpy, notching his sarcasm factor up to one hundred. Sam didn’t know if it was because they were where they were or because the Dean was worried about the counter spell and its after effects. Or lack thereof.

“Everything okay?” James asked, looking at Sam and then Dean.

“Yeah,” Sam said, trying for a smile. “Need any help?”

James shook his head. “Portia can assist me but one of you can figure out when high noon is going to be.”

“I’ll do that,” Dean said before Sam could speak. Avoiding Sam’s gaze, he strode to the glass door.

“What is wrong now?” Castiel murmured, coming over to stand by Sam’s side.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied, just as quiet. Dean was in the middle of the yard, shading his eyes as he looked up.

“I thought it might be a general discomfort from being in this place but now I’m not sure,” Castiel said.

“Same here.”

“Is he—”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Sam interrupted, already hurrying towards the door. Dean was still looking up and his stance, the complete stillness of him could only mean one thing. “I’ll go—”

A crash interrupted Sam. Irritation and worry gone in an instant, he froze, head cocked. “What was that?” he asked. The sound had come from inside the house. The house that was supposed to be empty save for the five of them.

“I thought you said there was no one left,” James said.

“Crowley cleaned it out,” Sam replied. Outside, Dean was still staring up at the sun. “At least, that’s what he said he was gonna do.”

“Maybe he missed someone.” Castiel was now holding his angel blade.

“Wait!” Sam grabbed Castiel’s arm. “The spell has to be completed and someone needs to check on Dean.” He got out his gun and then turned. “Portia? It’s your call—stay here with James or come with me.”

With a worried glance, Portia nodded and morphed into her dog phase.

“Cas?” Sam called out over his shoulder. “Don’t let Dean follow us!”

“Sam—” Castiel replied but Sam shook his head and kept going, Portia at his heels.

***

It was eerie, stalking through the empty halls, on high alert, heart racing, muscles tight. Portia must’ve felt the same because she growled as they crept upstairs, her low vocalizations alternating between quiet whines to deep snarls.

When they got to the second floor landing, they had a choice—go left or right. Sam gestured for Portia to take the right side. She whined and shook her head. Sam jabbed his gun towards the right. Portia whined again but took off, her paws thudding on the thick carpet.

Sam took the left, slower now, trying to hear anything other then dead silence. The corridor was decorated the same as the rest of the house: carpeted floors, paintings on the wall, and a statue every now and then. He checked each door as he passed, finding them all locked. The hall was maybe thirty feet long with a t-junction at the end and it had to be his imagination that the corridor kept getting longer, right? Or that he’d stepped into a vapor-less haze because it was suddenly hard to breathe, hard to see. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. It didn’t help and he really needed to turn around but he also needed to make sure so he kept going, arm now outstretched, fingertips brushing the floral wallpaper for balance.

It was the latter that saved the day. He’d almost reached the end of the hall when he touched something rough and jagged. He stopped and leaned close examine the tear in the wallpaper. It was a line of ragged claw marks about a foot long. He bent even closer and something brushed the back of his head. Almost simultaneously, the head on the statue at the end of the hall shattered.

Instinctively, Sam crouched and turned just in time to see a figure appearing out of thin air, leaping towards him on all fours. He fired and then retreated when the thing kept coming. It had pale, almost white skin, black claws and long tangled black hair. That was pretty much all he had time for because the thing roared as it ran, showing a row of sharp, yellow teeth.

Sam fired again, this time hitting the creature. Still snarling, it stopped and reared back, brushing its chest as if in confusion. Sam didn’t wait to see if his shot did the trick—he fired a third time, catching the creature in the throat. This time it shrieked and made a spitting motion, propelling an object as long as Sam’s hand. The object hit Sam’s shoulder with enough force to pierce his jacket and send him back on his ass.

With white blood seeping from its throat, the creature made one last move—it leaped and landed on Sam. It raised a clawed hand but before it could slash, it made a gurgling sound and then collapsed.

_“Shit!” _Sam shoved the thing off him just as Portia came scrabbling down the hall followed by Dean.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, racing up. “What the—” He dropped to Sam’s side as Portia danced back in forth in anxiety. “Did it get you? What the fuck is it?”

Sam wiped his face—the creature’s blood had dripped onto his chin and it burned. “It got me in the shoulder. I better wash this crap off me—it hurts.”

With a muttered, _“Fuck it,” _Dean grabbed Sam by the back of the collar and hauled him up. “Portia, help me find a bathroom.”

Portia barked and then turned and ran to a door. She looked back at them and then scratched on the door and barked again.

“Good girl.” Dean wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, hoping it was true. “There’s something wrong with the air.”

“I think it’s that thing,” Portia said, now in her human form. “Look.”

Sam looked over his shoulder. The thing was still dead but it was changing color. Or rather, it was changing density, like it was fading without really fading. Around the body, the air seemed thick, the carpet below the creature was distorted, as if they were viewing it through water. Sam realized the thing was female and what he thought was white skin was actually a neck-to-toe body suit.

“Come on,” Dean said. “We’ll check it out later—your chin is turning red.”

***

By the time Sam had washed off the blood or whatever it was, his shoulder had started to ache. Dean helped him take off his jacket and then his long-sleeved shirt and t-shirt. Because of the angle, he couldn’t see the wound, but Dean could.

“Damn it,” Dean growled, gently touching the barb. “It’s got hooks like a porcupine quill.”

“Then I guess you better just rip it out,” Sam said as he turned and leaned against the old fashioned sink.

Dean hesitated, then nodded shortly. “It’s resting against your collar bone which means it’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch; better hold on to something.”

Sam nodded and held on to something—Dean’s waist. “Ready.”

Dean pulled the barb out with a quick yank and then dropped it in the sink.

It was okay, Sam assured himself as his vision darkened and the pain flashed down his spine and spread across his back. It was okay because he’d had worse from a bullet and blade.

“We’re not done.” Dean muttered, reaching around Sam to open the medicine cabinet. “I gotta disinfect it. Alcohol doesn’t go bad, does it?”

“Probably not.”

Dean got out a package of cotton and a spool of tape. “Why would Magnus even have this crap?” He gave the tape and cotton to Sam. “I mean, couldn’t he just snap his fingers and say a spell or something?”

“He wasn’t Bewitched, Dean.”

“Yeah, well Bewitched wasn’t Bewitched,” Dean muttered, adding, “Okay, this is gonna hurt, too.”

“Do it.”

The next step was, as it probably had to be, somehow worse and Sam couldn’t help the small moan as Dean poured alcohol on the wound. Fire blossomed and burned along his shoulder, making him sweat and shiver. He reminded himself that two seconds ago he was congratulating himself on his ability to withstand pain. Then, pain called him a liar and he dropped his head onto Dean’s shoulder to ride it out while Dean patched him up.

“All right?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” he mumbled into the heavy cotton of Dean’s coat, unwilling to let go. “Just give me a minute.”

Dean gave him a minute, just the two of them in the pristine white bathroom with its white tiled floor and claw foot bathtub.

“Okay,” Sam said when he could think of something other than how much it fucking hurt. He pushed back and smiled at Dean. “I’m okay.”

He expected a kiss or maybe some sort of caress but Dean stepped to the side and reached around Sam to wash and dry his hands. “I better get that porcupine chick downstairs so we can examine her.”

Sam let go. “Be careful. Its blood might hurt you.”

“Like you need to tell me that. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Dean picked up the barb and tucked it in his pocket. “Maybe Cas knows what it is.”

“All right.”

Dean shifted his weight. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked without really looking at Sam.

Sam raised his arm, testing the pain. It was there, dull and achy. “I’m fine.”

“Then… Yeah.” Dean nodded but didn’t move.

“What about you? Are you okay?”

Dean looked up. “Me?” he asked, his expression smoothing out. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Before Sam could answer, Dean jerked his thumb. “I better get back. Put away all that crap.” He turned on his heel and left.

Frowning, Sam put the alcohol, cotton and tape away, wondering, ‘_What the hell?’_ Other than Portia out in the corridor, there had been no one to see, no one to overhear. Even so, it was almost like it had been back in the beginning, back after they’d first had sex and Dean could barely look at him.

Fuck.

Sam pulled on his plaid shirt and bundled up the rest the rest of his clothes.

***

There was no one in the hall and no sign that there’d ever been a fight. Well, other than the claw marks on the wall but this time Sam ignored them as he went back downstairs.

***

Everyone was out on the patio. Dean had laid the creature on the table. The distortion it had been giving off was gone—now it was just a dead body on a cast iron table. Castiel was saying “…I will inquire but I doubt they’ll know. This female seems to be unique. In all my years, I’ve never seen any living thing with white blood.”

“Maybe she was an experiment,” Dean said. “Like those Jefferson Starships.”

James frowned and opened his mouth but Sam preempted his question, muttering, “Don’t. You’ll regret it.”

Dean overheard him and sputtered an irritated, “Hey!” while Castiel tipped his head and asked, “Sam. Are you all right?” He raised his hand. “Would you like me to…?”

Sam gave Castiel a quick smile. “No, I’m fine. She just caught me by surprise.” He studied the creature again. “That suit of hers made her invisible. It looks like Magnus was messing around with technology.”

“That doesn’t seem his style,” Dean said. “I mean, I could understand if the suit was magical, but it’s not, right?”

“He was by himself all those years,” Sam said, thinking of Magnus alone in that big living room, in the white bathroom. “Maybe he got bored and wanted to try something new.”

Dean pressed his lips together, and then stated, “It’s almost noon. Let’s finish this up and get the hell out of Dodge.”

***

The powder that James had mixed looked like a mixture of cinnamon and sugar, like the stuff people put on toast. Sam remembered Dean making him some during one of those rare times when he’d been sick. _‘Eat this toast, Sammy,’ _Dean had said as he sat down on the sofa with a paper plate. _‘It’s good for you.’ _Sam hadn’t been sure of the health benefits of cinnamon and sugar, but his throat had been sore from throwing up and he _was _kind of hungry and it was nice having Dean around because Dean had been spending a lot of time with Dad.

“We ready to do this?”

Sam jerked out of the memory. Dean was watching him with a steady frown.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

It was kind of anti-climactic after all they’d been through. James went outside, then came back in after a minute. Then he’d stood before Dean and picked up a pinch of the powder. He whispered a few words and then blew the powder in Dean’s face.

No one said anything for a minute.

Dean had closed his eyes when James had picked up the powder. Now, he cracked on eye open and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“How do you feel?” James said.

“I—” Dean hesitated as he thought about it. “I don’t know. The same?”

Sam hadn’t expected there to be a flash of light or anything like that, but he’d thought there’d be, well, something. “When Magnus did it the first time, you said it felt like you were suffocating. Do you feel any of that?”

Dean shook his head slowly. “No. I just feel like me.”

“Perhaps it’s because you were chained up,” Castiel mused. “Maybe your fear magnified the effect.”

“Maybe.”

“Then perhaps we should mimic the process?”

Dean opened his mouth to speak but Sam got there first. “You have got to be kidding,” he said, stepping close to Dean. Like before, Dean shied away. “No,” he said, “we’re not gonna tie him up.”

“I agree,” James said. “Sinclair’s book said nothing about external forces acting as a binder.” He looked around. “I think our only option is to wait and see.”

Dean hmphed under his breath.

James shrugged. “I understand the outcome isn’t what we expected but I’m not going to perform the ritual again until we see what happens.” James found a plastic bag in a drawer and dumped the powder inside it. “Portia and I have nowhere to be for the time being. We can hang out, just in case.”

Everyone turned to Dean.

Visibly angry, Dean muttered, “Well, it looks like I don’t have a say and can you all stop looking at me like that? I’m not gonna explode!”

Sam glanced down. He was familiar with Dean’s moods but he wasn’t sure about this one… “So, okay, we’ll wait and see.” He nodded to the body still outside. “What should we do with her?”

“If that female has been living here for almost a year,” Castiel said, “she must have been feeding on something.”

Sam hadn’t thought about that. By the look on Dean’s face, he hadn’t either. “I don’t know,” Sam said slowly. “Maybe she didn’t need to eat?”

“All organic beings need to eat,” Castiel replied.

“Then maybe Magnus had a magic refrigerator,” Dean smirked. “You know, food just appeared or something.”

Castiel shook his head. “I thought of that. I investigated the entire house. The refrigerator and cupboards are empty. There are no other cooking areas other than the one on the first floor.”

Dean frowned. “When did you have time to do all that?”

“While you were taking care of Sam.”

Castiel’s words were bland, non-accusatory, but Dean’s expression darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam stepped forward. “Dean—”

“Shut up,” Dean shot back, followed immediately by a repeated, “What’s that mean, Cas?”

Castiel glanced at Sam even as he answered, “Nothing, Dean. I’m not—”

“Whatever,” Dean interrupted again, backing away. “I’m going home. You guys can do whatever you want. Cas? Can you give Sam a lift?” And then, without looking at Sam or anyone else, he strode out of the lab.

“Well,” Portia mused. “What was that all about?”

Sam thought he knew but there was no way he was going to say it out loud so he just muttered, “Dean can’t get out of the house on his own, James. Can you help him? I’ll stay behind and help Cas with the, er, porcupine chick.”

James tucked the plastic bag in his pocket. “Of course. I took Sinclair’s lock off the house so when you want to leave, just open the front door and say _‘Exitus.’_”

“_Exitus. _Got it.”

“I’ll meet you back at the bunker.”

“About that…” Sam smiled weakly. “Why don’t you give us a day or so.” He tried to make a joke of it. “Dean might need some time to get back to being Dean.”

James hesitated and then nodded. “Very well. Portia?” In a second, Portia was all dog; they walked out together.

“Were you lying just now?” Castiel asked as soon as they were alone. “About Dean needing time.”

“Sort of,” Sam said.

“Which means that if I ask for details, you won’t tell me.”

Sam went to the patio door and opened it. The air outside was so hot and he wondered what kind of spell could actually make the inside world seem like the outside world. It was a good thing Magnus was dead—that much power on the loose was always a danger. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s just that I’m not sure.”

With a wave of his hand, Castiel picked up the body. It floated in the air, twisting a little. “I understand, I believe. It’s not only your story to tell.”

Sam bent his lips. “Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

***

Castiel dropped Sam off at the bottom of the drive. It had started to snow again. The snow drifted and danced in the slight breeze and Sam would have enjoyed the way it swirled if he weren’t so worried. On the way back, Castiel had again brought up the creature and the fact that she had access to food. One thing led to another and soon they were discussing whether or not Magnus was truly dead. Sam pointed out that he’d seen Dean lop off Magnus’s head. Castiel replied that it could have been another shapeshifter. That had shut Sam up because that was one more thing he hadn’t thought about.

He was still worrying about Magnus and the porcupine chick and Dean when he closed the door behind him. “Hey?”

There was no answer and Sam hurried down the stairs. “Dean?” he called out again, already knowing what he’d find because the bunker had that empty, no-one-is-around feel. He checked his phone in case he missed something; the last message was from Castiel, announcing his arrival with James and Portia.

Absently, Sam hit the speed dial and listened as he went downstairs. Expecting to hear, _‘You have reached Dean’s other other…’ _he was surprised when the call clicked through.

“Hey.”

Sam stopped outside his door. “Where are you?”

“At the store. I left you a note.”

Through the cell’s speaker, he could hear the faint sound of rushing air, like Dean was driving with the windows down. “Where?”

“On your bed.”

Yeah, there it was, on the center of his pillow. _‘Gone to the store.’_ “You couldn’t have called? Or waited?”

“I didn’t know I needed your permission.”

And shit, Sam knew that tone just as he realized that the background noise wasn’t wind heard through a rolled down window, it was the low murmur of voices. “You’re at a bar, aren’t you?” There was no reply. “Dean?”

“I needed a beer, Sam.”

“We have a six-pack in the refrigerator.”

“Then, I needed to think.”

“You can think here.”

“Sam—”

“You shouldn’t be on your own. What if the spell didn’t work? We should lay low and make sure.”

“And have you watching me like I’m gon—”

“Explode,” Sam interrupted ‘cause, yeah, this was bad. “I heard you the first time.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Is this about before? About how you think we’re not gonna—” He couldn’t even say it. “Just come home. We’ll figure it out.”

Dean hesitated and then muttered, “I can’t. Not yet.”

“What’s that supp—” But he was speaking to no one because Dean had hung up. “Shit!” Sam clenched his fingers around the cell, wanting to throw it against the wall. He didn’t, of course. He’d gone through three phones in the last year and he liked this one. So he just muttered, “Shit” again, this time quietly because, _shit_.

***

The snow picked up as Sam trudged into town. He hunched his shoulders, remembering Dad had always warned them not to commit any crime near their hideouts, temporary or otherwise. Sam could still hear the: ‘_Shitting in your own nest is a good way to get caught so just don’t do it.’_

But Sam had no gas for the vehicles in the bunker, no cash for a taxi, and he needed a car. He found one outside the Unitarian church on Railway Avenue. It was an older model white mini-van with a _Jesus Luvs U _bumper sticker. Breaking in and starting her up was the work of a few minutes. As he pulled away, he glanced apologetically at the church and then muttered to the van’s owner and the absent Jesus, “Sorry.”

With no idea where Dean might be other than it had to be relatively close, Sam took a shot. His reasoning went that Dean would stay away from the bars to the west and south because he was still persona non grata at the bars to the west and he hated the bars to the south. That left east and north, a lot of territory to cover in a stolen vehicle and he hesitated on the corner of Elm and Grove, wondering _east or north?_ Finally, he decided that Dean would avoid the eastern towns because they were churched up, as he called it, so that left one option. Hoping he was right, Sam headed towards Red Cloud.

***

The van’s tires were okay and gripped what they could of the snowy road, but the rear window wipers were shot and the radio was crap. The only stations Sam found were the national weather service and a Christian rock station. He listened to a static filled weather report for a few minutes before switching to songs about Jesus. He managed another few minutes before giving up. He turned off the radio and clenched his jaw. Imagining what he was gonna say to Dean when he found him, Sam leaned back and gave the van a little more gas.

***

Red Cloud was about four times the size of Lebanon which meant it had three bars instead of two. As luck would have it, the first two were Dean-less but the last one wasn’t. Sam pulled up to the curb and peered at the Impala parked in front of the bar. The car was white with a thick layer of snow. That meant two things, good or bad; or rather, good _and _bad. The good was that Dean wasn’t behind the wheel. The bad was that he’d been in there for long enough for the light snow to cover the car, which in turn meant he’d been inside for a while. And a while, Dean-style, meant a lot of alcohol.

Hoping he was wrong about the latter, Sam disconnected the van’s ignition and got out.

***

The bar was surprisingly crowded for seven on a Wednesday evening. Sam had to thread around couples and groups of guys watching basketball as he looked for his brother. He did a circuit and then another, finding strangers but no Dean. He was making a third circuit, wondering if Dean had seen him coming and slipped out the back, when the crowd shifted, revealing the tables in the far corner. So, yeah, Dean wasn’t at the bar and he hadn’t slipped out the back—he was sitting in a corner booth, smiling at a pretty girl.

Just his type, Sam thought dully, taking in the girl’s long blond hair and what he could see of her perfect figure. The girl was laughing at something Dean had said and even from the distance Sam could see her even, white teeth. It was weird. He felt weird. The lights dimmed and the bar noise muted. He touched his chest. This was the first time anything like this had happened since things had changed between them. Dean still gave girls the eye because he was Dean, but that had been it. In retrospect and fucked up hindsight, Sam probably should have thought about this before, that just because things had changed for him, didn’t mean things had changed for Dean.

Which meant he had another choice: swallow his pride and join them or stomp off like a broken-hearted teenage girl.

Two things happened just then: The girl reached over and touched Dean’s hand, and the group of guys sitting at the bar hollered at the TV. Dean jerked and then looked around to track the noise; like magnet to iron, his gaze met Sam’s.

And, yeah, weird because it was like they were strangers, him and Dean. No bending, no softening, just a stony stare as if Dean was saying, _‘Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?’_

Broken-hearted teenager it was, and Sam turned to shove his way back through the crowd.

***

He was almost at the van when he heard the shout, “Sam! Wait up!”

Sam didn’t turn, didn’t pause. He wrenched the van’s door open and bent down to fumble for the wires. His fingers were cold, shaking, and he dropped the thin strands. _Fuck_.

“Damn it, Sam. What the—” Dean pulled the door wider.

“Leave me alone.” He found the wires and tried again.

“Sam—” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder.

Sam jerked free. “Don’t!”

Like he’d touched a hot stove with his bare hands, Dean flinched and stepped back. “I was just trying to—”

“I know what you were trying to do, Dean,” Sam said without looking up. The shaking was worse now and he dropped one of the wires again. “I saw it, remember?”

“Sam,” Dean said quietly. “I wasn’t—” He broke off, then tried again. “I just wanted a beer. She asked me if she could join me. That was all.”

“No, that wasn’t all, Dean. I saw the way you were looking at her. And why do you need to drive twenty miles for a beer?”

Dean shifted his weight. “Yeah, okay, I was just—” He stopped talking and shifted again.

“You were just being you,” Sam threw back, angry at everything and everyone. He couldn’t find the second wire and that only made him more furious. “You were doing what you do and I should have known better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam twisted awkwardly to look over his shoulder. “It means you’ve never been able to keep it in your pants and I—” The rest of it, bitter and cruel, was right there and so was the pain, crashing up against him, what this meant, the bald realization of the depth of his pathetic hopes and dreams—the real ones he hadn’t let rise to the surface of his mind.

But none of that mattered because Dean was angry too, his face hard as stone. “All right. You said it, now take it back.”

“_‘Take it back,’_” Sam mocked. “Next you’ll be wanting to meet me out by the flag pole.”

Dean’s hands clenched and so did his jaw.

“Yeah.” Sam returned to what he was doing. He fished under the dashboard once more and this time found the second wire. A touch and the van rattled to life. He secured the wires and then shoved to his feet. Dean was still holding the door like it was a shield, a literal barrier between the two of them. “I’m going home. You should stay here.”

“Sammy…”

Sam got into the van, jerked the door closed and then rolled down the window. “If you have sex with her, you better wear a condom.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open in shock. If he wanted to say anything, Sam didn’t give him a chance—he pulled away, pressing the gas pedal too hard, making the van slide and strain in the slushy snow. He straightened her out; as soon as he hit the road, he picked up speed.

***

Sam spent the first five miles or so glancing back in the rearview, sure Dean would follow. All he found was empty dark that swallowed the blameless road and his own tracks.

And that was good, Sam told himself, that was what he wanted it. He needed to think and he couldn’t do that with Dean anywhere close by. Dean had a way of confusing things, of making the bad seem worse and the good seem better.

So he drove, concentrating on the road, fists squeezing the wheel in an effort to keep his mind blank.

***

Prints wiped off, Sam left the van on the edge of town. It had stopped snowing but the walk was miserable and cold and he was miserable and cold by the time he let himself into the bunker. He clattered down the stairs, his wet boots making squelching sounds. He’d take a shower to warm up and then fix something to eat. And even though he wasn’t in any way hungry, he’d make dinner. One of the first lessons he’d learned as a kid was that you ate when you could because the future might not include time, money, and a grocery store.

Remembering Dad saying just that, Sam was taking off his jacket when his cell rang. It was Castiel. “Hey, Cas,” he answered.

“I’m with James and Portia.”

“Okay.”

“We were wondering how Dean is.”

“He’s fine.”

“I tried his cell but he didn’t answer. May I speak to him?”

Sam pushed his bedroom door open. “Yeah…” He hung his wet jacket over the back of his chair. “About that…”

“He’s not there.”

“No.” He toed off his boots and then sat on the chair. “He’s not.”

“Which means he’s at a bar.”

“Got it in one.” The bottoms of his socks were dark grey and wet.

“The Mark won’t protect Dean’s liver, you know. He’ll eventually have a problem if he doesn’t stop drinking so much.”

Sam sighed and then scrubbed his face. “Cas—”

“And that means you two had a fight.” When Sam didn’t answer, Castiel added, “I haven’t said anything because it’s not my business, but are you quite sure this change in your relationshi—”

“Jesus,” Sam growled, jumping to his feet. “Cas, I can’t talk about that. Not now, okay?” There was a long silence and Sam pictured Castiel’s expression, that of apologetic impatience. “Okay?”

Finally, Castiel said, “Very well. I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

“Good,” Sam answered, wishing he was Dean, wishing he could just be rude and hang up.

“Will you let me know when Dean returns?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Taking advantage, saying a quick, “Of course. ‘Bye,” Sam tossed the cell on the bed, and then headed for the showers. He was going to pull a Dean—he was going to ignore the phone for the next twenty-four hours and he wasn’t going to feel guilty about it.

That resolution lasted all of three minutes. By the time he’d stripped off and turned the hot water on, he was already regretting leaving the cell in the bedroom. What if, drunk and angry, Dean called for a ride? What if James’s cure had the opposite effect and Dean zoned out while driving?

The worry, the goddamn, ever-present worry crept in, letting in pent-up fury, as well.

And yeah, here it was, the thing Sam had been running from for only a few hours but really felt like months and maybe his entire life because…

Because he’d thought it was just gonna be the two of them, that when they had taken that final step, it had meant something. No more others, no more casual sex with strangers and…

…and he was an idiot, wasn’t he, because he hadn’t even been able to admit it to himself, what he was expecting. Not marriage, of course. No vows, no papers to sign and a party after. Just everything else—wide-eyed commitment and a declaration of intent they both believed in and stayed true to.

In other words, marriage.

Sam groaned and leaned against the warm tile wall, burying his face in the crook of his arm. It was actually embarrassing, what he thought would happen, what he was waiting for. Dean would never give him that—it just wasn’t in him, having the strength to say, ‘_Here we are and fuck you if you don’t like it.’_

Never mind the wrongness that had never truly felt wrong, it was the way they were raised. Living on the outside, always lying, always hiding, a separate kind of existence that was different only so far as norms would allow. And the kicker was, for all his wanting a regular life, Sam had been more than willing to let that dream die if it meant he could have Dean.

He knew if he waited, Dean would come slinking back, false smile pasted on, ready to pick up where they left off earlier today. Except Dean would have also stowed all that anger and shame and those other convergently bad feelings away until the next time an unexpected event shined a light on what he was hiding from.

So, Dean would come back and Sam would give in because that was their pattern, one always leaving, one always staying. But what was the alternative? Life without his brother was truly life on the outside of everything. He’d heard it over and over from close friends and perfect strangers: Dean was his soul mate, Dean was everything to him. Kicking and screaming, he’d recognized the truth of it but how to live with just that and not the other…?

There was no one else; there’d never be anyone else.

But it wasn’t like that for Dean because Dean couldn’t let it _be _like that. Tonight was a perfect example—if Dean truly felt the same as Sam, there’s no way he would have gone to that bar. He would have come home and waited. But he hadn’t and now Sam had a decision to make. He could settle for what Dean could give and they would live their lives in a no-man’s land of defeated expectations and awkward silences, only coming together through sex and hunting. Or they could call it quits and go back to being who’d they’d been for most of their lives, still in a no-man’s land, this one filled with the bleak knowledge of lost perfection.

Either would be a living hell.

Exhausted and thought out, Sam stayed in the shower for the longest time. It was only when the water cooled did he sigh heavily and push away.

***

He went to bed early that night. Feeling stupid and weak, he placed the cell on the nightstand, just in case.

***

Sam got up the next morning, expecting to find his brother at the stove or table. The kitchen was empty of Dean as was the library and garage. Unable to do anything but mutter, “Whatever,” Sam went back to the kitchen fix his breakfast.

***

The day passed quietly. After breakfast, Sam called James and Castiel. Castiel didn’t say much other than to report that he’s searched the globe for another creature like the one at Magnus’s and had come up with nothing. He’d ended the call with a soft, _‘Call if you hear anything. I’m sure he’s fine.’_

At two, feeling hemmed in, Sam closed his laptop and then changed into sweats and a hoodie and went for a run. The sun decided to show halfway through and when he returned at three, shoes soaked from the snow, he was almost at peace.

Peace turned out to be a temporary self-delusion because the first thing Sam did when he went inside was to call out, “Dean?” He received no answer, just his own voice echoing on the tile walls. His heart sank but why should he expect anything else? He told Dean to stay away. Dean was merely following orders.

Still, Sam paused by the library table and checked his cell. No calls, no texts. Which meant nothing or everything but there was little he could do about it. What he _should _do is take advantage of the alone time to read or watch a movie that Dean hated.

In a sour mood, Sam made himself an early dinner. He chose a book off the shelves—_The Red Badge of Courage_—and went downstairs. Instead of going to his own room, however, he went the opposite direction.

He stood in the doorway of Dean’s room, gazing at the perfectly made bed. It was so strange—other than the stuff on the side table, Dean always kept his room neat and clean; he put things away and made his bed as soon as he got up. Sam, on the other hand, could care less about mess. He kept his things tidy because Dean bitched if he didn’t. What did it mean that he was so messy and Dean was so neat? Probably nothing other than they were two separate people, soul mate bullshit aside.

Avoiding the temptation to mess up that perfectly made bed, Sam returned to his own room and settled down to read.

He actually did, managing to lose himself deep in Henry Fleming’s adventures, so much so that when his cell rang, he jerked and almost dropped the book. Rolling to his side, he grabbed the phone. “Dean?”

There was a pause and a familiar voice said, “Well that answers that.”

“Garth?”

“None other,” Garth replied. “And I gotta tell you, Sam, I’m gonna be stepping on all kinds of toes but it looks like Dean just lied to me and I—”

Sam straightened up. “You talked to him? Where is he?”

“More about the latter in a moment. Yes, I talked to him. He gave me some song and dance about you being sick and—” Garth hesitated. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“No,” Sam ground out. “I’m fine.” He was gonna kill Dean.

“That’s what I thought,” Garth sighed. “See, I called Dean about a case here in Minnesota and when I gave him the 411, he said he’d handle it. But Sam, I didn’t want him to handle it if he’s alone. It’s a bad deal, amigo, and he’s gonna get himself hurt but for sure.”

While Garth motored on, Sam began to gather up his gear. “You told him that? That he shouldn’t take care of it by himself?”

“I sure did. When I asked to say hello to you, he said you couldn’t come to the phone seeings how you had a cold. I knew he was lying the minute he spoke. Why’d he lie, Sam?”

Sam stuffed his second-best knife in his second-best duffle bag and then reached for an extra bottle of holy water. “If this deal, as you put it, is as bad as you say, I don’t have time to go into that.”

“Understood. You two are having relationship problems. Again.”

“Garth…”

“No accusations, I’m just worried.”

“Me, too,” Sam said. He tucked the phone between chin and shoulder and sat down to pull on his boots. “Give me the details.”

“Okay,” Garth said, his voice lowering. “Now, I know I said I was getting out of the hunting business and I meant that but something has come up that I couldn’t ignore.” There was a noise, a creak like Garth had just opened a screen door. “After the contretemps in Grantsburg last year, Reverend Jim moved his flock to Pipestone and me and Bess followed and it’s all been good, real good. But recently I was visiting my cousin’s cousin, Jessiebell, and her hubby Fred, who live in a nearby hamlet by the name of Little Sweden. I was on my way home and stopped at a Gas N Sip and ran into a trio of the most suspicious characters you’re ever to likely see. I know I shouldn’t have, but I followed them and let me tell you, Sam, those suckers are _real _suckers, if you get my drift. They’re holed up in a two-story farmhouse on the edge of town and there are a lot of them.”

“Were you able to take a count?”

“Not as such. I think I saw an extra three which makes six but there might be more. When I got home, I called Jessie and she told me she’d heard through the grapevine that three of Little Sweden’s citizens up and died in the space of two days from a mysterious ailment characterized by an extreme loss of blood.”

Sam pulled his jacket on. “Sounds like the vamps are new to town.”

“That’s what I’m thinking, and if they just got started, the citizens of Little Sweden are in deep do-do.”

“Yeah.”

“Sam, I have no problem helping out because contrary to what Dean thinks, my skills are as sharp as ever but there are six of them an—”

“No, it’s okay. We’ve got this.”

Garth sighed again. “Good to hear it, compadre. My bride is in her last trimester and we’re both a little anxious.”

“What?” About to pick up the duffle bag, Sam paused and smiled. “Beth is pregnant? Congratulations, Garth.”

“Thanks, Sam. I’ll pass on your felicitations.”

“You do that.”

“And call me when you’re done. It’s been too long, man.”

“Will do.”

Garth hung up and Sam stood there for a moment. Transportation was the problem now. He could steal another car but there was that whole, _‘don’t shit where you live,’ _thing and he might be pushing it, hot-wiring another vehicle during daylight and within two days of the first. Sighing because he didn’t really have a choice, he called Castiel.

***

Sam insisted on driving. Castiel had started to object, then took one look at Sam’s face and handed the keys over. The drive should have taken six hours but Sam made it in five, arriving at the outskirts of Little Sweden just after ten. He passed the, _‘Welcome to Little Sweden. Ha en trevlig vistelse!’ _signboard and then pulled to the side of road. On his left was a motel with a blinking_ Vacancy _sign. Beyond that was a closed liquor store. There was not another soul around. “Garth said the vamps are holed up on the edge of town.”

“This town appears to have many edges,” Castiel replied.

“Yeah, I should have gotten directions.”

“Maybe he can help,” Castiel answered, nodding towards the motel. At the end of the row, a familiar car was parked in the shadows.

Sam sighed with relief. As day had turned to night, Castiel had tried Dean’s cell every half hour. Each time Castiel had hung up, the knot of tension in Sam’s chest had tightened. “I’ll see if he’s made contact.” He opened the door. “You might want to stay here.”

Castiel frowned. “Are you sure? If Dean is in a bad mood, my presence might help.”

“Cas, if Dean is in a bad mood, nothing’s gonna help.” He gave Castiel a wan smile and climbed out. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he jogged across the road and then across the parking lot. When he got close to the car, he bent over to see inside. There was no one there; he paused and looked around.

“Sam!” came a harsh whisper.

Sam straightened up. Dean was hunkered down by the corner of the liquor store. He stood up and waved, his gesture sharp.

“What are you doing here?” Dean growled as soon as Sam joined him. “Is Cas with you?”

“Yeah, he is, Dean,” Sam answered, keeping his voice down. Dean smelled of smoke and sweat but not alcohol. Good. “Because I needed a ride and you weren’t around.” Dean was holding a pair of binoculars; his bag was at his feet.

Dean pressed his lips together, then muttered, “Did Garth call you?”

“What do you think?” Before Dean could answer, Sam swiped his hair back and glanced around. The area to the right of the liquor store was a mini junkyard, full of old equipment: mowers, wheelbarrows and even a tractor. “What were you thinking, coming out here alone?”

“I was thinking I was gonna take care of the bloodsuckers, then get my buzz on.”

“That is foolish in the extreme,” Castiel said, making both Dean and Sam jump.

“What the—” Dean started to say only to be interrupted by Sam.

“He’s right and you know it. Garth said there’s as many as six.”

Dean started to argue, but then his shoulders dropped. “It’s more like eight. They’re right over there.” He jerked his head, pointing to a farmhouse on the other side of a fallow field.

Sam took the binoculars without so much as a ‘_please_.’ He didn’t have to ask if Dean was sure about the nest—the house looked like something out of a horror movie. About a hundred feet away, it was surrounded on three sides by dormant oaks and tall pines. The windows were boarded up and the door was barricaded. Someone had spray painted a bunch of symbols and signs on the front. Sam couldn’t figure out what the symbols meant because the porch light was dim, but he thought they might be the work of wannabe satanists. “Have you seen any of them?”

“Just a girl. She came out for a smoke a while back.”

“Maybe the rest are hunting.”

Dean shook his head. “I’ve been here since sundown. If they went out for a snack, I’d’ve seen them.”

“So what’s the plan?” Castiel reached out, silently asking for the binoculars. Sam handed them over.

“_My_ plan,” Dean said, “before you two crashed _my _party, was to let myself in and go to town.”

Binoculars trained on the house, Castiel murmured, “Won’t they hear you coming?”

Dean shrugged one shoulder as if Castiel had asked about the weather. “Probably.”

Typical Dean answer, typical Dean bullshit, and Sam shook his head. “We’ll talk about your suicidal tendencies later but as long as Cas is here, we might as well use him.”

Dean glared, his jaw tense. “And how’re we gonna use him?”

“He doesn’t have a heart beat. He can go in and report back.”

Dean squinted in that way that said he was searching for an objection. After a moment, he shrugged again and turned to Castiel. “What about it? You up for it?”

Without a word, Castiel gave the binoculars to Sam and began walking across the field.

“I take it that means ‘yes,’” Dean muttered.

Sam frowned.

A thick, uncomfortable silence descended, separating Sam from Dean. He rode it out, not wanting to be the one to speak first and it was maybe a minute before Dean crossed his arms and said abruptly, “How’ve you been?”

Sam breathed a laugh. “Fine, Dean, peachy.”

“Sam,” Dean sighed.

“No.”

Dean turned. “No?”

He swallowed. Dean had moved into the light cast by the motel sign. He might not have been binge drinking, but he hadn’t shaved and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “I’m not saying we don’t have a lot to talk about, but we’re not gonna do it here, not when there’s—” Sam jerked his thumb towards the field, to Castiel, now creeping through the trees near the house. “We’ll do it later.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean finally said. He turned back to the house, and then paused. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs and I’m not sure, but I don’t think I’ve zoned out once.”

Sam had completely forgotten and the news… He almost felt it, the particular weight that fell from his shoulders. He wished he weren’t quite so relieved. He wished it didn’t mean quite so much that Dean was free of Magnus’s spell. “Good. That’s good.”

***

Once Castiel entered the home, they didn’t have long to wait. He reappeared off to the side and then held up five fingers and then three.

“Eight,” Dean murmured, peering through the binoculars. “Garth has some explaining to do.”

“It’s not his fault. Besides, we’ve got this, right?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Right?”

Dean nodded and put away the binoculars and brought out a stained machete. He gave it to Sam and then got two more. Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean shrugged. “In case Cas wants to get into it.”

Sam gripped the knife. Whatever was cooking between them might spill out and scorch them both by way of accidents and misjudgments. He was gonna have to be careful and control his own irritation, whether he wanted to or not.

***

Using the trees and the cloudy moon as cover, Sam and Dean hurried as best they could across the field. They made it to a piece of shit Toyota and hunkered down to wait for Castiel.

Castiel had come around the side of the house and was heading their way when the front door opened. Dean held his hand up; Castiel retreated and found cover just as a girl stepped onto the porch.

She was younger than Sam and had short black hair and a long black dress. She leaned against a porch post and got out a cigarette. She yawned as she was lighting up—even at a distance Sam could see her black fingernail polish. So trite.

Dean nudged Sam’s arm and pointed, saying without saying, _‘I’ll go right and get her attention. When she comes for me, take her down.’_

Sam nodded.

Contrary to Sam’s worry, he and Dean moved as one and the plan when down smooth as silk—Dean appeared from the right-side bushes. He smiled and waved, the machete still in his hand. The startled vamp growled and jumped off the porch and then charged. Coming up from behind, Sam took her head with a swift, hard swing.

Dean marked a ‘one’ in the air. Sam rolled his eyes and pointed to the rear of the house. Dean nodded and then hurried to get Castiel.

The rest of the hunt was typical, if any of what they did could ever be called typical.

They entered through a mudroom, listening as two men in the kitchen argued about the next kill. The guy with the deeper voice wanted to hit a house near the pharmacy because the family had a lot of kids. The other guy thought they should stick to the houses outside of town, just to be safe.

As the argument grew heated, Dean grinned and shook his head. Then he opened the kitchen door, announced, “No one’s hitting anything, assholes,” and took off the nearest guy’s head. The other guy tried to run but Sam caught him at the door.

In the living room they found a women. She was sharpening a long butcher knife. Castiel got her before she could get to her feet.

It was then that the night went their per-usual-south because the rest of the vamps finally realized what was going down. And because Castiel’s count, like Garth’s, was off but this time by five.

***

“You okay?” Sam asked as Dean shoved the headless body onto the bed. The body bounced on the soft mattress and the head—a forty-something guy who had the air of a stockbroker—rolled onto the floor, coming to a stop near Dean’s boot.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Dean nudged the head away. “You?”

“Yeah,” Sam said even though he kind of wasn’t. Eleven vampires were a lot different than eight and he was still in that ‘kill everything’ zone. “What about you? I thought that kid had you for a moment.” The vamp’d had his face buried in Dean’s neck when Sam had pulled him off. There was still a wide smear of blood on Dean’s throat.

“He tried,” Dean said with a weak grin. “Just wasn’t his day.”

“Dean—”

Dean backed up. “We gotta wash this blood off.” He gave Sam a quick once over. “You’re covered in it. Where’s Cas?”

“I’m right here,” Castiel said as he came through the bathroom door. His machete was dripping blood. “One of their victims is in there.” When Dean started forward, Castiel stopped him with a hand on his arm. “She’s dead.”

Dean hesitated and then nodded shortly. “You better make yourself scarce.”

Castiel cocked his head. “Why?”

Sam answered for Dean, “Because the ground is too hard to bury this many bodies.”

“So we’re gonna torch the house,” Dean added.

“Very well.” Castiel turned to Sam. “Shall I wait for you?”

Dean answered for Sam, “No, I’ll take care of him.” Same words from days before, same quick look Sam’s way, but this time Dean didn’t run, he just tipped his head and firmed his jaw. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Cas.”

Castiel glanced from Dean to Sam and then gave Dean his machete. “See that you do.” Castiel left.

Dean started to follow but Sam stepped in front of him, blocking the door. “No.”

Dean did a double take, not the funny, comical kind. “No?”

“I told you, when we were done we were gonna talk.”

“You want to talk _now_?” Dean waved the machetes, taking in the three bodies and three heads. “You gotta—”

“Where better?” Sam returned because, yeah, where better? Stinking of blood, adrenaline coursing and ready for another fight—it was what they did, it was what they were and the time was right. “What’s going on with you? Is it the Mark?”

“No.”

“Is it Magnus’s spell?”

“I told you, I think James did it.”

Sam nodded because it was probably true—Dean hadn’t touched the Mark or zoned out once. “Was it the girl?” he asked next, his voice as dry as paper.

“No!” Dean said, almost shouting.

“Then what is it, because I need to know.”

Dean rolled his eyes and turned in a circle. But when he faced Sam again, there was a familiar look on his face, grim and dark. “Yeah, okay, you wanna have this out, let’s do it.” He squared his shoulders. “I lied.”

Sam frowned. “When?”

“Back at Magnus’s.”

“You mean…” Sam searched his memory, coming up with nothing. “When?”

“You asked me if I was okay. I said I was.”

He shook his head, only barely remembering. “In the bathroom? After that girl attacked me?”

Dean nodded. “You asked me if I was okay and I said I was fine.”

“But why? I mean it was me that—”

Dean was suddenly in Sam’s face, jabbing Sam’s chest with his finger. “That’s right, it was you. That thing was on you and I—” He stepped back and then scrubbed his face. “I asked you one time if this was gonna ruin us but maybe I was asking the wrong question.”

“You were worried because I was in danger,” Sam said slowly.

Dean laughed—he actually laughed. “No, Sam, I wasn’t worried. I was terrified. I was _petrified_.” He laughed again, still completely void of humor. “When I saw you, I froze up. I couldn’t move because all I could think was—” One more smile, this one a grimace.

“I didn’t notice,” Sam said slowly. “You seemed pretty normal to me.”

“I wasn’t,” Dean said. “I lived about a jillion lifetimes in that one moment and I don’t think—” He rubbed his jaw again but this time his eyes were red and wet. “When we started all this, I thought the worst would be people knowing, but I was wrong and I can’t—” He shook his head, adding with stark finality. “I can’t.”

Sam couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. After all the things he’d been thinking, he couldn’t quite… “You want to end it? Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Let me get this straight…” Sam took a step forward. “You’re willing to give up what we have because, what, it just hit you that one of us might actually get hurt during a hunt? After all the crap we’ve been through, all you’ve _put_ me through, it comes down to that?”

Dean’s face was like stone. “It does.”

“And I suppose I don’t have a say. As usual.”

It wasn’t a question, but Dean answered anyway, “No, you don’t.”

“So, never mind the fact that nothing’s really changed, that both of us have died a couple times each, that _either _of us could be killed by a bus or an angel or a demon at any time—” Sam shook his head, only then feeling the creeping pain. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Dean shrugged.

He’d been on this edge before, hesitating, wondering if he was gonna make things better worse, but he had to try… “I know we’ve thrown the word around a lot but it’s not—” As difficult as it was, Sam made himself go on, “I love you. In every way a person can love another, I feel that for you.” His throat hurt, the words _hurt,_ and he swallowed. “But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

Dean expression had altered, just a subtle break as if something had cracked deep inside.

Sam nodded. “You love me in the exact same way. I know you do.” He was suddenly lay-down-and-die tired. “You know what I wish more than anything? That we could have a life that’s not always up and down, not always another heartbreak around the corner.” He squinted at the bodies, at the pools of blood and gore, and then looked straight at Dean. “But that’s never gonna happen because you’ll always be ruled by your fears and yeah, you’re right—time to end this. If we even can.” Ignoring Dean’s now stark expression, he tightened his grip on his blade. “Give me your keys. I need to get the gas.”

***

Sam washed his hands and the machete in the kitchen sink before leaving the house. Trudging back across the field, he was almost to the Impala when his cell rang. He sighed—another thing he’d completely forgotten about… “Garth.”

“Glad to hear your voice, buddy. How’d it go?”

“Fine. We cleaned them out.”

“Whew,” Garth sighed. “I’ll get on the horn to my cousin’s cousin so they can let the mayor know. She was thinking of calling in the feebs.”

“No need.”

“How is Dean? Did either of you get hurt?”

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Dean was striding towards him. “No, we’re fine. Bloody but fine.”

“About that—I was thinking, why don’t you spend the night at our place? It’s a long way back home for you and we’re about fifteen minutes away.” When Sam didn’t answer, Garth added. “I made a pie.”

Dean passed close enough to brush Sam’s sleeve but he didn’t glance over or acknowledge Sam in any way. “I don’t know, Garth. I need a shower and—”

“C’mon, amigo,” Garth urged once more. “We’ve got plenty of room and it’ll be payback for keeping us safe.”

Dean got in the car and then rolled the window down. He tapped his thumb on the doorframe, letting Sam know that time was wasting.

Seven hours in the car alone with Dean—it wasn’t possible. But, fifteen minutes he could do. Tomorrow, he’d see about hitching or jacking a ride. So he nodded and said, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Copacetic. Now, what you’re gonna do is…”

Sam slid into the Impala and Dean started her up as Garth happily rattled off directions.

***

The fire started quickly and they just as quickly made their getaway. When they were about a mile out, Sam called 911, giving the weak excuse of seeing a house on fire. He hung up before the operator could ask any more questions like his name and cell number.

“She buy it?” Dean asked as soon as Sam had tucked his phone in his pocket.

“It was a he and, yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” Dean said.

Sam let the silence build and then, because they were coming up to the turn that would take them north or south, he said, “Garth offered us a room for the night. It’s close by.”

Dean shrugged and said, “Okay. Where to?”

***

Garth’s new house was situated about a mile outside of Pipestone. It was a pretty, storybook home complete with a porch swing and a rose garden.

Dean pulled up behind an old Pinto and cut the engine. “The lights are all off,” he said. “You sure it’s not too late?”

“He was pretty insistent and that was only, what, twenty minutes ago? Maybe we should—” Sam stopped talking as movement on the left drew his eye. “There he is.”

They both got out.

“Hey guys,” Garth said in a loud whisper as he strolled down the driveway. He was wearing a robe and holding a cup of coffee. “Looks like my directions were right on the money.”

Dean gave Garth the once over. “Nice robe.”

“Thanks,” Garth replied happily, ignoring Dean’s rudeness. “Bess made it for me. It’s my favorite Christmas present.”

Dean drew breath but before he could insult Garth any further, Sam closed the car door and said a little too loud, “Thanks for putting us up.”

“My pleasure.” Garth waved the mug. “We’re gonna use the back door as Bess is in a particular way with her pregnancy. See,” he continued, leading Sam and Dean around the side of the house, “unbeknownst to me, when ladies of the lycanthrope variety are with child, their olfactory faculties go into overdrive.” Garth gave a hiccup of a laugh and looked back at Sam over his shoulder. “I am not joking—Bess can smell a chickadee from a hundred feet away.”

Even though he was in front and Dean was behind, Sam could practically feel Dean’s eye roll. “So what you’re saying is she’s sensitive to the smell of blood.”

Garth laughed again. “You better believe it. And we don’t want any accidents so we’re gonna keep clear of her for the time being.”

Dean sighed. “Garth—”

“It’ll be fine, compadre. I’ve set everything up. You’ll see.” He turned and winked. “But if I were you, I’d leave those boots on the stoop.”

***

Garth showed them to the basement and then the basement bedroom. The room was kept in reserve for guests because, as Garth put it: _‘Being married doesn’t mean the romance is dead so when we have overnight visitors, me and Beth stay down here so we can be intimate.’_ The room _did _look vaguely bridal—on every surface were lit candles that gave off an overwhelming, cloying floral scent. “What is that?” Sam asked. The room wasn’t tiny but it wasn’t big. And there was only one bed.

Garth rocked on his heels. “It’s a mixture of rose, agave, and lemon.”

Dean had stopped in the middle of the room but now he turned. “Agave?”

“You better believe it,” Garth said with a smile. “It cuts right through the scent of blood. Now…” He waved the coffee mug again. “There’s soap and shampoo and fresh towels in the bathroom. I’ve got a pot of hot water on the stove in case you want tea and there’s a piece of pie for each of you in the refrigerator. The washer and dryer combo is in the room next door—I highly recommend you wash those clothes. I realize the bed is small but it’s bigger than most motel offerings and I know you’ve shared before. Bess will sleep in until ten or so but I’ll be up at dawn. You’re welcome to join me for breakfast which I eat promptly at six-thirty in the winter and five-thirty in the summer. Thanks again for taking care of our vampire problem—six bloodsuckers must’ve been quite a job.”

“‘Six’?” Dean said with a raised eyebrow. “It was eleven.”

Garth glanced at Sam and back at Dean. Then his smiled widened and he rocked again. “Let’s make that _two_ slices of pie. I’ll see to it. Thank you, my friends.” With that, Garth left and closed the door.

As if all the air had been sucked out of the room, Sam stood there, at a loss, feeling like he was choking. It could be the candles but it was most likely—

“That bed’s too small,” Dean said. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

Sam pulled off his jacket—it was stiff with dried blood. “Okay.”

Dean’s expression hardened. “_‘Okay?’_ That’s all you’ve got to say?”

Sam dragged off his shirts, first the flannel and then the tee. “It’s past midnight, I’m covered with monster juice, I just had the _it’s all over but the crying _argument with the person I love most in this world plus I’m tired so, yeah, Dean, all I’ve got right now is_ ‘okay’, _okay?”

Whether it was his tone or words or a combination of both, but Dean backed down almost literally, retreating until he got to the door. “Yeah. Okay.”

The front of Sam’s jeans was as stiff as his jacket—there even was blood on one of his socks. How the hell had that happened? It had to have been that third vamp—she’d been short but surprisingly strong. He also had a bruise on his shin—probably got it at the same time.

“That looks painful,” Dean said.

“It’s not.” Sam tossed his jeans on top of his shirts. He went to the bathroom and closed the door.

Garth’s shampoo smelled of lemon and as Sam scrubbed his scalp, he wondered if that was a thing with werewolves—did the scent of lemon calm them down or something? He was still musing, knowing it for the distraction it was, when the shower curtain waved and the light changed.

“I’m gonna do a wash,” Dean said from the other side of the vinyl. “I’m taking your stuff.”

Sam closed his eyes in an effort to _not _pull the shower curtain back. Less than three days ago, he and Dean had showered together. They hadn’t had sex, they’d just gotten clean, preparing for James’s arrival. Sam had picked up the shampoo bottle and Dean had said, _‘Let me—I do it better,’ _like Sam hadn’t been shampooing his own hair for most of his life. It had been a whole new level of sexy and he’d stood there holding onto the soap dish, his head tipped back, his eyes closed and his cock half hard… “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The door closed again and the shower curtain billowed.

Stomach hurting, Sam glanced down. His Pavlov’s dick had reacted accordingly and he muttered to it, “Shut up.”

***

When Sam got out of the shower, he found two robes on the door hook. He dried off and pulled one on—a blue plaid that was too short for his arms and legs.

Dean wasn’t in the bedroom. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the sink, eating pie. A faded striped towel was wrapped around his hips.

“I’m done,” Sam said unnecessarily, unable to keep his eyes to himself. Dean had bruises on his neck and shoulder, both new. The bruise on his neck was shaped like a heart and already turning a dark blue.

Dean ate the last of his pie in one big bite. “I put yours on the stove. It’s really good.” He reached around and set the plate and fork in the sink. “The clothes are in the dryer. I wouldn’t look in that fridge if I were you.”

Sam turned away, his mouth dry, his heart beating too fast because the faded striped towel didn’t cover everything and Dean might as well be naked. “Okay.” There was a noise, the soft sound of bare feet on linoleum and then Dean was gone.

Left with the imprint image of Dean’s thigh and dick, Sam got his pie and sat down.

Dean had thoughtfully got him a fork as well. It was probably a Dean-type olive leaf, little gestures to say what he yet couldn’t and Sam thought on that treadmill subject while he ate. What would he do if Dean apologized or skated over the argument? Would he give in like he had so many times before? Giving in meant comfort and companionship and all the things he wanted. Minus the true intimacy of faith and trust, of course, because added to the rest, Dean still didn’t believe he could take care of himself. Same old song, same old dance, and he’d be tired of it if it hadn’t happened so many times before.

In a ‘whatever’ kind of mood, Sam ate his pie and then washed the dishes. The dryer buzzed while he was putting the plates away.

The jackets weren’t quite dry; he draped them over the kitchen chairs, then carried the rest down to the bedroom. The bathroom was empty and the bedroom was steamy. Only mildly curious how Dean had pulled that vanishing trick, Sam folded the clothes, separating them into two piles, and put them on the dresser.

Shorts back on, robe back on the hook, he blew out the candles and crawled into bed.

The sheets were cold and smelled lemony. Definitely a wolf thing. And Garth had been right—the mattress wasn’t big but it was big enough to kind of feel lost. He turned on his side. If Dean was here, the space would be halved and Sam would spoon up behind because Dean liked it that way, both comfortable and cozy. If Dean was here…

Sam turned over again, back to the door, and closed his eyes.

***

The part of his mind that never relaxed jerked Sam out of sleep. The clock said three-seventeen, too early to be awake naturally. Knowing what he’d find, he looked over his shoulder. There was a dark figure in the doorway.

“I can’t sleep,” Dean whispered.

_Give in and accept, _Sam’s sleepy brain urged. Give in and accept because it was always gonna be this way, Dean’s way or the highway and eventually they’d meet in the not-quite middle again.

No, Sam’s waking brain demanded. Not this time. Heart in his throat, he faked nonchalance and turned away. Back under the covers he waited; after a few seconds that felt like a hundred, Dean sighed and Sam heard the sound of the closing door.

It took a while but eventually he dropped off again.

***

The next time he woke, it was to the smell of bacon and coffee. Reaching out because it was Dean’s habit, bringing him a cup, Sam’s hand found nothing but mattress. Memory returned and he sat up. There were no windows in the room but he could tell it was full morning. Dean’s clothes were gone.

Unhappy with himself because his first thought was, _‘Dean left without me,’ _Sam got dressed. He went up to the kitchen and found Bess at the stove.

She turned and smiled. “Morning, Sam.”

“Morning, Bess.” As pretty as ever, Bess was wearing a white robe covered in pink roses. Her hair was longer and she’d braided it, one straight gold line down her back. Strands escaped here and there.

“How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“The boys are out on the porch. They ate a while ago.” Bess gestured to the pan. “Are you hungry?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said as he went to the stove. “I can do that.”

Bess waved Sam’s offer away. “I don’t mind. Normally the smell of cooked food makes me sick but now…” She stroked her round stomach.

Sam smiled and sat down at the table where a clean place setting waited. “Oh, yeah, congratulations.”

Bess’s smile changed and brightened. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam picked up a fork. He wasn’t sure what questions to ask but figured some were universal. “Do you know what you’re having?”

Bess transferred eggs and bacon onto a plate. “We weren’t going to ask but I’ve had a few complications. In between all the visits to the doctor, we gave in.” She set the plate in front of Sam. “There you go, and we’re having a little girl. Garth is over the moon.”

Sam smiled again because, yeah, Garth _would_ be overjoyed. “Will it make you sick if you watch me eat?”

“That’s so sweet of you and no, I can sit with you.” Bess pressed her hand against her lower back in the way all pregnant women seemed to do and then took the seat next to Sam. “I’ll let you get your own coffee, though. It’s on the stove; the mugs are in the cupboard next to the sink.”

Sam got up to get the coffee. “Would you like some?” He hesitated and then added, “I mean, can a bitten even drink coffee?”

“Most of us can. I’ve heard stories of some packs being allergic to it but I think they’re old wives tales.”

A wolf old wives tale. If Dean were here, he wouldn’t be able to keep from commenting. Good thing Dean wasn’t here; Sam liked Beth and didn’t want to offend her. He poured the coffee and then sat down again. The eggs smell delicious but he hesitated once more. “You really don’t need to stay if you don’t want to.”

“I’m fine,” Bess said with a wan smile. “I’ll probably go back to bed in a while. I wanted to be up before you left.” She stroked her stomach again. “I wanted to thank you personally for helping us out. Some good people died last week and I—” She broke off and shook her head. “You both did us a great favor.”

The kitchen was designed so the table was in direct line of sight to the living room. Through the gauzy drapes, Sam could see a shadowy form rocking back and forth on the porch. “It was nothing, Bess. It’s just our job.”

“‘Your job.’” Bess propped her chin on her cupped hand. “Over the past year, I’ve thought about you two, about your mission. It must be such a hard life.”

“Harder than being a lycanthrope in a human society?” Sam asked, honestly surprised.

Bess nodded. “Hm, mm. You work in the dark and you can’t tell anyone what you do. So much is resting on your shoulders. If you make one wrong move—” She shrugged, her eyes growing cloudy. “Last year, I could tell by the way you and Dean worked together that you’ve been doing it for so long. I suppose that’s one of your few blessings, isn’t it, that you have each other?”

He should have known where this was heading because it was a common refrain among their friends, how close he and Dean were, how much they depended on each other. Only now that reminder hit at the wrong time and made his chest hurt. No longer hungry, Sam swallowed and tried to smile.

“Sam,” Bess said, reaching across the table again, this time to touch the back of his hand. “What is it?”

The sound of the door opening and closing was a welcome interruption; Sam looked over as Dean and Garth came inside.

“Hey,” Dean said, pausing at the kitchen threshold. Visibly searching for something to say, he waved his coffee cup and asked, “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” Sam lied, hoping Garth or Beth hadn’t picked up on the inference, that Dean had to ask because Dean had slept on the sofa. Which, he reminded himself, was a normal situation—two guys, even two brothers as close as they were, would naturally want to sleep apart no matter what Garth had said. “You ready to go?”

Dean went to the sink and set his cup down. “Yeah, soon as you are.” He turned and shot a quick glance at Garth. Garth grinned. Dean had something in his hand, a piece of paper; he stuffed it in his pocket then added, “I thought we’d take a side trip. If you don’t need to get home right away.”

What the hell was going on now? Garth looked like he’d just swallowed the sun and Dean looked shifty and nervous. Garth tended to look like he’d swallowed the sun all the time but Dean had no reason to be shifty _or _nervous, right? “No,” Sam said slowly. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean muttered. “Okay. I’ll be out in the car.” He cracked a smile at Bess. “Thanks for the pie and breakfast.”

“I’ll get your boots and meet you on the porch,” Garth said as he leaned down to kiss Bess on the top of her head. “Be back in a few, hunny-bunny, and don’t you go doing the dishes—I’m on it.”

Dean left without another glance back and Garth practically danced out the door.

Neither Bess nor Sam said anything for a moment and then Bess shook her head. “Now, what has gotten into those two?”

Just as confused, Sam shrugged and got up to put his dishes in the sink.

***

Dean was silent until Pipestone was miles behind them. “Garth said there’s a grocery store on the way. I’m gonna get us some grub. It’s a four-hour drive.”

“Do I want to know where we’re going?” They were headed northeast but he didn’t recognize the route.

Dean raised a shoulder. “I just— I kind of want it to be a surprise.”

Sam turned to look at Dean. “Okay.”

“That’s it, just okay?”

“I guess you were expecting something else, right?” Sam pushed down in the seat and closed his eyes. “I’m still too tired to argue, Dean.”

Dean was silent for a long moment and then he murmured, “Okay.”

***

Sam roused when Dean stopped the car and then again when Dean returned with two grocery bags. He waved away the soda Dean held up and fell back asleep.

***

“Sam?”

Sam surfaced from a dream of wading through a river of bloody pink roses. “Yeah?” he mumbled before opening his eyes.

“We’re almost there.”

He sat up. It was late, maybe three or four, and the sky was white with an approaching storm. They were driving through a forest—snowy pines flanked the narrow road. “Where are we?”

“Northern Minnesota.”

“Why are we in northern Minnesota? Are we hunting something?” The road curved in a shallow bend bringing them to parallel a massive hotel at the top of a low hill. A sign made of wood and stone stated, _‘The Lodge on Gull Lake.’_ “What is this?”

“I—” Dean glanced at Sam. “I’ve been thinking about last night and before, about what you said and I—” He turned left and cruised up the half-moon drive, parking in front of the steps. He turned off the engine and then said, mostly to the steering wheel, “I know I’ve got some explaining to do but I’m asking you to wait until…” He shrugged. “I’ve gotta go check us in, so… Will you wait?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said slowly. “I’ll wait.”

“Good.” And then Dean was out of the car, almost running up the steps.

“That’s strange,” Sam murmured because it was. His first assessment had been right—Dean was nervous which meant a conversation that neither of them wanted to have was coming up. Which in turn meant one of two things. Both meant heavy decisions, both meant heartache.

Wondering if Dean was going to tell him that he was moving to another part of the country, Sam gazed up at the lodge. It reminded him of the Stanley Hotel. It wasn’t as big and it didn’t seem as old, but it had a wrap-around porch and was painted a creamy yellow with a dark grey trim. Wondering if it was as haunted, Sam looked around.

There was no one about and the parking lot was empty except for what probably was the caretaker’s truck. The place seemed still, as if the hotel was asleep or dead. It was a little creepy.

Sam was thinking of getting out to stretch his legs when the front door opened and a kid in a maroon uniform trotted out to sweep the steps. When the kid saw the Impala, he stared, obviously ogling the car. He saw Sam and waved. Sam waved back.

Dean came out right after. Tucking a bunch of papers in his jacket, Dean said something to the kid. The kid answered; Dean grinned.

“What was that all about?” Sam asked as soon as Dean got in the car. He wasn’t jealous about the way the kid had smiled at Dean. He wasn’t.

“The dude had a Led Zeppelin t-shirt on under his uniform. I asked him how he got away with it and he said the owner was on vacation. Actually, he said, _‘When the cat’s away…’_” Dean started the car. “Bet they have all kinds of shindigs here during the low season.”

“I take it this is the low season?”

“It is.”

Sam peered up at the lodge again. “And I’m assuming we’re not gonna worry about axe-wielding maniacs?”

Dean snorted. “That was just a movie.”

“It was a movie that was scary.”

For once Dean didn’t argue or ridicule—he just nodded and pulled out of the drive. “Yeah, those twins.” He mimed a shudder.

Curiosity starting to tug, Sam held his tongue as Dean drove away from the lodge and then took another left. This road was even narrower, a single lane path that was just frozen mud and leftover snow.

When they came to a fork, Dean got a piece of paper out of his pocket and glanced down at it, then went right. This road was much of the same only it eventually stopped at a house. Dean pulled around to the side and cut the engine.

Sam waited for Dean to explain but just got a terse, “Be right back.”

The house was probably called a ‘cabin,’ but it wasn’t anything like the cabins that Sam had stayed in. It was a two-story showstopper made of massive wooden logs. The landscaping was minimal, but neat and tidy and a path of white stones travelled from the front to the back.

Dean went to the door and got the bunch of papers out, leafing through them until he found what he was looking for. It was a key code—Dean tapped it in and opened the door. He waved and then went inside.

Sam joined Dean in what turned out to be a mudroom. “What is all this?”

“Hold on…” Dean bent down and unlaced his boots. “Don’t want to get the floor dirty.”

Sam took off his shoes, put them on the mat and then followed Dean inside.

Someone had arrived before them—the lights were on and there was a fire going. Same as the exterior, the interior was like a photo out of _Architectural Digest_: Glossy timbers darkened by age, a ceiling that vaulted over the huge room, a two-story high fireplace that bisected the equally tall windows, furniture that matched the scope of the room. To the right was a winding staircase that led to the second floor. 

Sam walked over to the windows and cupped his hands to see what he could see. It was getting dark and if the patio had lights, they weren’t turned on. He could just make out a wide deck with a hot tub in the corner and a lake beyond. The view in the summer would be something else. He turned back to Dean. “Well?”

Dean hadn’t moved. “Yeah, so like I said I’ve been thinking about what _you_ said and I wanted to…” He folded the papers and put them in his pocket. “I wanted to do something special because…”

“Because you said some stupid things and don’t know how to apologize?” Sam finished. “Because you can never just say you’re sorry?”

For once, Dean didn’t fight back, didn’t get angry. “Pretty much.”

So here he was, at a well-known crossroads and he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he _had _known what to do, he _had _stood firm. But the righteous certainty he’d found was apparently made of vapor because it was gone. In its place was the crazy urge to make it easy for Dean, for them both. The urge grew until it was like a stone in his belly and Sam couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

“You were right,” Dean added in his most deadpan. “It’s always something with us and I’m so goddamned tired of that, too.”

Sam shrugged, but, because Dean was giving a little, he extended his own tiny olive branch, “How’d you know about this place?”

Dean took a step into the room. “Garth.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and looked around. “Garth?” The cabin seemed about as un-Garth as one could get.

“Yeah, he and Bess stayed here on their honeymoon. The owner and Reverend Jim go way back. Apparently the good reverend saved the owner’s life when they were kids.”

Sam thought about that, then said, “So I guess my next question is _why_ did Garth tell you about where he and Bess stayed on his honeymoon?”

Dean’s lips tightened and then, as if he’d just lost an internal argument, he shook his head and sighed, “Because I asked him if he knew of a place that you and I could hole up for a few days while we worked a few things out.” He went over to the nearest sofa and sat on the arm. “I thought he was gonna kiss me, he was that happy. He said he knew something was up with us and then he hugged me and told me about this cabin.” Dean cracked a smile. “He said it would be a balm to our spirits because the air around here holds big time mojo.”

Sam shrugged. The giving-in urge was now a fist in his throat but still, he ignored it. “Is it expensive ‘cause it looks it is. Where’d you get the money?”

Dean shrugged. “I used the bank I was saving for Baby’s new wheels and no, it wasn’t that bad seeing it’s the lo—”

“Low season, yeah,” Sam interrupted. He knew how much Dean wanted those rims for the Impala but he couldn’t give in, he _couldn’t_— “And all this? I mean…” He made his way around another sofa and two fat chairs until he was at the dining room table. The lodge had provided a gift basket that was as oversized as the room: Strawberries, chocolate, crackers and cheese arranged in an arc around a bottle of champagne. Tucked discreetly on the side were lotions and condoms and lubricant. He picked up the box of condoms. “Looks like they were expecting newlyweds. What did you tell them?” He turned, still holding the box.

Dean gave Sam an odd smile and said, “The same thing I told Cas when I let him know where we were.”

“And that was?”

“That I needed some alone time with the man I love most in this world.”

A wash of volatile surprise spread up and across Sam’s back; he couldn’t move, not even to swallow.

“I mean,” Dean added, “I didn’t use those exact words and I registered under a fake name, but for once I used the same last name.”

“We don’t look like each other; they’ll think we’re married.”

“I know.”

Dean’s tone was quiet and absolute, nothing Sam was prepared for. “Dean—”

“I know this doesn’t make up for the things I did, but Sammy, I just needed a moment to find my way again. The girl meant nothing.”

“That wasn’t the problem,” Sam shot back even though it sorta had been.

“I know.”

“And?”

“And sometimes I just need to shut up.”

“And?”

“And I need to think before I speak if I can’t shut up.”

The shocked had dispersed, leaving a warmth that Sam felt in his hands and feet. “Okay.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered. He dropped the condoms in the basket. “It’s just…” He leaned against the table.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Yeah.”

Dean got up and strolled to another couch, this one closer to Sam. “I’ve been thinking about that, about the things we’ve said and the things we haven’t.”

Sam frowned. “Like what?”

“Well, Dad. And Mom and Bobby and every other hunter out there.”

Once more, Sam froze.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, a quiet _‘got you’ _expression in his eyes. “You said you’re fine with it but right now you look like a deer in headlights.” Before Sam could respond, Dean added, “I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just tired of us running from it.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t know we were.”

“We were. You know we were.”

Unlike Dean’s, Sam’s relationship with his parents was lopsided and incomplete. Yes, he’d thought about what Dad would say but Mom was a perpetual twenty-something, a fragmented, ephemeral figure that never quite seemed real. But Dean had once had the whole of their parents and that changed things… “I’m okay with it.”

Dean folded his hands together. “Because none of them know or because you truly don’t care and you truly aren’t ashamed?”

And here was the Dean that Sam most feared—the Dean that was too calm, too rational, the Dean that saw through Sam’s every little lie and every huge evasion. “Because none of them know.”

“And if they did?”

Sam shrugged and looked down at the floor. The carpet was Native American design of striped lines and diamonds. He toed one of the diamonds, up and then down again.

“Sam?”

He could only tell the truth and it was bitter and painful, “I guess we wouldn’t be a thing if everyone knew.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Sam looked up.

Dean was watching him as if from a distance, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

“Well, what about you?” Sam asked, suddenly angry. “Don’t tell me that if Dad walked right up, you’d tell him straight to his face! Have you thought about that?”

“Seriously? Ever since that night, that first night, that’s all I’ve thought about,” Dean said, his voice still calm. “You, the Mark, that crap that Magnus pulled—it’s been a fun few months.”

“And?”

“And, I don’t care.”

Sam breathed a disbelieving laugh. “Sure you don’t.”

“I don’t, Sammy,” Dean stated, like he was saying the car needed gas or demons were bad. “I figured out a few things last night, hell, over the last few months. There are a lot of things I hate about myself and a lot of things I’m ashamed of. You’re not one of them.”

Sam examined Dean, his calm and certainty. This was a new thing, not there only a week ago. “Is this about Magnus?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. I haven’t zoned out, have I?”

“No,” Sam said with a shake of his head.

“I guess that’s a done deal.”

“Hopefully, yeah.” A beat. “You seem different, though.”

“I feel different. Getting the cold shoulder last night…” Dean laughed silently.

“It was your own fault.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t, but it made me step back, made me think and the upshot is, I realized that whatever this thing between is, we were made this way, _they_ made us this way.”

“Who?”

“God, the angels, Mom and Dad—take your pick.” Dean shrugged. “They made us need each other this way and there’s no use crying about it, no use fighting it.”

That was an interesting thought, one he’d examine when he had time, when the need to touch Dean wasn’t so fucking overwhelming… “And the hunting?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “You were right about that, too—nothing’s really changed. You managed this far. I’m just gonna have to trust you like you trust me.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Dean…” Sam searched for the words. “The thing I don’t get, is when the shoe is on the other foot, I don’t push you away, I—” Sam shook his head, remembering his anger, the depression that nothing was ever gonna be different.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You know?”

Dean nodded calmly. “It’s something I still need to work on. I think I’ll get there. Eventually.”

Not sure if Dean understood what a huge step that would be, Sam could only answer, “Okay.”

There was another moment of silence and then Dean settled back on the sofa. “So, before—is that what you meant by, _‘if we even can’_?”

Not wanting to break the fragile peace, Sam considered lying, but only for a second because what was the point? If Dean had things to work one, so did he… “Yeah, I think it’s too late for us. It’s a done deal, too. I wasn’t strong enough to break free and neither were you; now we can’t live without each other.”

Dean’s mouth turned down. “You say that like it’s a prison sentence or even—” He broke off and looked down at the floor.

_‘Or even our own personal hell,’ _Sam finished for Dean silently. A log in the fireplace popped and hissed and fell over the grate. It split in half; sparks burst and flew up the chimney. Sam pushed away from the table and padded to the fireplace. “I suppose it is.”

“Jesus, Sam…”

He got the iron tongs and put the pieces back on the grate. The wood glowed and hissed and then quieted down. “All I meant,” Sam said to the fire, “was that we all live in some kind of prison. Some manage never to know it and that’s okay. Living without knowing is okay.” He turned and dropped to the fireplace’s stone footing. “But you and me know how much we need each other and that’s never gonna leave us alone.” He twisted his lips. “It’s like we’re too tangled up in each other or something.”

Dean came over and sat on the carpet in front of the fire, arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the flames for a moment, then muttered, “Lisa said something like that to me once.”

Sam was reaching around to put the tongs back and he paused. “Yeah?”

Dean nodded. “She said she knew the minute you returned that it was over between us. Lisa and me, I mean.”

Christ. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah.”

Sam propped the tongs next to the poker and then rubbed his palms over his jeans. “I really did want it to work out for you two.”

Dean cocked his head. “Sure you did.”

So, yeah, Dean was too good at sussing out his lies and Sam could only shrug and mutter, “Well, I wanted to want that for you.”

“Sammy.”

Dean was still gazing at him with that distant, _I’m not quite here _air but underneath there was a hint of tenderness. Sam opened his mouth to say something, anything, when Dean’s phone buzzed.

“Damn it,” Dean muttered and got out his phone. He nodded and added, still in an undertone, “Speak of the devil.” Awkwardly and with a soft grunt, he got to his feet and answered, “James.”

Sam watched the one-sided conversation for a moment, watched Dean rub his hip. Dean had done that a few times over the last twenty-four hours. Sam wasn’t sure if it was from the fight with the vamps or just age. Dean was going to be forty sooner rather than later, and forty was old in hunter’s terms.

Feeling an achy, unwanted sadness, Sam got up, went to the door by the fireplace and stepped outside.

The decking was free of snow and cold, but not freezing, and he went over to the rail. The clouds were breaking apart and the moon shone down, bright enough that Sam could see that the lake wasn’t really a lake but a pond. A few other ‘cabins’ lined the shore, the closest about seventy feet away. Someone was watching TV—the blue screen lit up the room. It reminded him of Kalispell and the cabins around the lake. Odd to think of that hunt. He’d been so miserable, so ashamed and unhappy. Less than three hours later his life would change completely and permanently.

Irrevocably.

“Hey…”

He turned. Dean was coming towards him, cell held out.

“James wants to talk to you.” Dean covered the phone, adding in a whisper, “Because I’m five and don’t know when I’m all right.”

Sam rolled his eyes and took the phone. “Hey, James.”

“Tell Dean I don’t think he’s five,” James said. “I think he’s been under a witch’s spell and I need to make sure he’s okay.”

Sam grinned and leaned back against the wooden railing. “Since you probably already told him that, I won’t waste my breath.”

Dean snorted and joined Sam, belly against the rail.

“I just wanted to check in,” James said. “We hadn’t heard anything and—”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam replied. “We got a call from a friend about a nest of vampires.”

“That’s what Dean said. Did he have any issues?”

Sam shot a quick look at Dean. Dean was staring out at the lake-slash-pond, pretending not to listen. “No, no issues. I mean, it might be too soon to tell but it looks like you did the trick.”

“Don’t forget you’re not out of the woods yet,” James reminded Sam.

“The Mark.”

“Hm, mm,” James said. “Castiel is concerned that Sinclair’s spell tamped down its power.”

Dean had given up his pretense and was staring straight at Sam. “This is the first I heard of it.”

“Yes. So now, unfortunately, you’ll have to see if the removal of the spell causes a slingshot effect, if it makes the effects of the Mark that much more powerful.”

Sam rubbed his forehead and tried to make a joke of it, “If it’s not one thing, right?”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It’s not your fault, James,” Sam said. He knew James was sorry; he also knew that it didn’t help. “What are your plans?”

“We’ll stay until Sunday. If everything goes well, of course.”

“And then?” Dean had shifted sideways; his arm pressed against Sam’s.

“Portia has family in LA—we’re going to stop by on our way to Hawaii.”

“Vacation, huh?”

“No, there’s a witch on Lanai who’s agreed to mentor me.”

“Wow, a witch from Hawaii. Who knew?”

“There are quite a few,” James said, his voice now a little stiff. “They’re a very tight knit group, though. It’s unusual for a white man to be brought into their coven. I’m very lucky they agreed to work with me.”

“Sorry, James. It was a stupid comment.”

James sighed. “No, _I’m_ sorry, Sam. I’m tired and worried about Dean.”

“Join the club.”

“Yes, well, call if anything happens, all right?”

“Will do and thank Portia for us, okay?”

“I will.”

Sam hung up and gave the cell back to Dean.

Dean turned the phone over and over a few times then stuffed it in his pocket. “He tell you what Cas said?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

Sam started to speak and then he smiled wanly. “You know what? It’s late, my feet are getting cold. Let’s leave it for tomorrow.”

“Sam Winchester doesn’t want to discuss the issues of the day,” Dean murmured, his gaze softening. “Will wonders never cease.”

Only half serious, Sam shook his head and muttered, “Screw you, De—”

Dean grabbed Sam by the jacket and yanked.

Caught off balance, Sam fell forward, into Dean’s arms. And he wanted to resist, to hold off at least a little but he melted like butter under Dean’s kiss, instantly hungry, starving even…

Dean’s lips were cold and his mouth was hot, a contrast that sent a chill up Sam’s spine. Groaning deep in his throat and needing more of Dean, he bent his knees and opened up, biting Dean’s lips and tongue, wishing he could…

“Sam…”

…crawl inside Dean’s heat and…

“Sammy.”

Sam raised his head. Dean’s eyes were half-closed and his breath was coming in shallow gasps. “Yeah.” Sam licked his lips. “Okay. Someone’s probably watching us.”

Dean glanced out at the lake. “Yeah, that dude across the way is getting his money’s worth.”

Sam followed Dean’s gaze. There was a man standing at the windows of one of the houses. Not only was he watching, he was bent over a telescope. “Sorry,” Sam said, dropping his hands and stepping out of Dean’s reach.

“Like I care what some old fart thinks,” Dean said with a grin. “In fact…” Before Sam could blink, Dean tugged again and gave him a long, hard kiss, slipping his hand down the back of Sam’s jeans to palm his ass. When he let go, Sam was dazed and could only watch as Dean flipped the guy off. “C’mon.” He took Sam’s hand. “Show’s over, old dude.”

“How do you know he’s old?” Sam asked as he was led across the terrace and into the house.

“‘Cause a young guy wouldn’t be able to afford that telescope.”

Trying to catch his balance in more ways than one, Sam rolled his eyes and said, “So now you’re Sherlock Holmes?”

“You better believe it, Watson.” Dean paused to lock the door. “Speaking of, I finally saw the Downey Sherlock. You can’t tell me he and Jude Law didn’t have a thing going on.”

The warmth and brightness of the cabin cleared away Sam’s daze, settling him into the moment. “You mean Watson and Sherlock.”

Once more, Dean got that sheaf of papers and went to the kitchen. He squinted at a panel on the wall, then squinted at the papers. “How do you turn off the…” he muttered, adding in a louder voice, “I meant what I said.” He pressed a button and the fire died. He pressed another and the main lights dimmed. “Those two were doing it.”

Shaking his head, Sam took off his jacket. Mercurial and swift, Dean’s mood had changed. “Just because you’re gonna get some doesn’t mean we’re done with the hunting conversation.” He started up the stairs only to be stopped by a pinch on his ass.

“As long as I get some,” Dean replied with an angelic grin and the welcome basket, only a few steps behind.

***

The upstairs matched the downstairs though it was half the space. The entire floor was a bedroom, complete with a bathroom big enough for a football team, a mammoth bed, another fireplace and a deck. The deck was smaller but had a better view of the lake.

“How’s our peeping Tom?” Dean asked as he stood in front of the control panel and tried the lights—on and off and then on again.

“Probably still peeping,” Sam said.

“Too bad it’s so cold. We could do it out there.”

Sam tossed his jacket on the back of an overstuffed chair. “We don’t want to get arrested for public indecency, Dean.” His body was revving up like always, his stomach and chest warming, his heart thudding. If Dean was still a vamp, he’d probably say, _‘Tone it down, Sammy. You’re heart’s so loud, I can’t hear myself think.’_ “And that deck is in view of the public, too.”

“I don’t get how it’s public if it’s on our own turf,” Dean replied absently. He was still playing with the controls, this time turning on the fireplace and the sound system. “Hey, what do you think about getting a fireplace for the bunker?”

“I think it would be a good way to burn down our home.” Sam sat down on the chair and pulled off his socks. There was no reply and he looked over. Dean was staring at him. “What?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s just, when we moved into the bunker, that’s what you always called it, the bunker. Now you call it home.”

Sam gave Dean a half smile. “Will you roll your eyes if I say that’s because you’re in it?”

Dean came over and took off his jacket. He laid it on Sam’s “No,” he finally said, “’cause when you talk like that, I want to come all over you and the fucking world.”

Sam didn’t smirk, didn’t laugh. He spread his legs and then reached out and hooked his fingers through Dean’s belt loops. He pulled Dean close, close enough to rest his cheek against Dean’s belly.

“My stomach’s probably making noises,” Dean said as he combed his fingers through Sam’s hair. “It is, isn’t it?”

He wrapped his arms around Dean’s hips and nodded. Through the thin layer of Dean’s t-shirt he could hear soft gurgles and murmurs. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, but let’s wait, okay?”

He pushed away and looked up. “Okay.”

Without another word, Dean hauled Sam up and then guided him back until they were beside the bed. Dean began to undress him.

They’d done this dozens of times before. Dozens of times and it shouldn’t be so sexy, right? Maybe it was because Dean wasn’t hurrying, was slowly removing Sam’s clothes like he was removing the layers of doubt and worry. Maybe it was because Dean was intent and focused, like he’d never done this before. It was a turn on and Sam shivered.

“You cold?” Dean murmured as he kissed and then tongued Sam’s tattoo.

“No,” Sam lied around another shiver because the feeling was too good, too strong. He wanted to hold Dean too hard, gather him too close until there was no space between them, no way to tell where he ended and Dean began… “You?”

Dean breathed a laugh and then, without letting go of Sam, leaned over and jerked the bed covers off. “Get in.”

Sam got in, sliding back, unable to stop his, “Oh,” of surprise.

“Right?” Dean said with an arch nod as he quickly got undressed and then under the covers. “The bed comes pre-heated.”

Sam rolled to his back and pulled Dean on top. They sighed as one.

“Four days,” Dean murmured into Sam’s neck.

The blunt crush of Dean’s rib cage and hips were an uneven match to his own. How would it have been to never have this again? What would it have done to him in the long run? Distraught and heartbroken and then cold-stone furious, would he have made a mistake on a hunt and ended it once and for all? “What’s that?”

“It’s been four days,” Dean said again. “You know, since James de-whammied me.”

“Huh.” It didn’t seem like four days—it seemed like four hundred.

“Though I gotta tell you, it feels more like four hundred.”

Sam cracked a smile up towards the high ceiling and the high ceiling fan, not surprised to find they were in sync again.

“What did you do while I was gone?”

“You mean the whole _day _you were gone?”

“It was more than that.”

“Just barely.” And then, before Dean could say, _‘Yes, it was,’_ Sam added, “I read, I went for a run.” He ran his hand over Dean’s short hair, wishing it were longer like when they were kids. “I waited for your call.”

Dean sighed and then nuzzled Sam’s neck, “Hey?”

“Yeah?”

With his face still buried, Dean whispered, “I just wanted to say you were right. I do love you that way. In every way, I love you.”

Sam swallowed, the easy tears of joy and weak sorrow dampening his eyes.

“You’re not crying, are you?” Dean asked without looking up.

“No,” Sam answered and then, “yes,” because what the hell.

Dean raised his head. His eyelashes were wet, starred in points.

Sam touched Dean’s cheek. “When you look at me like that, I could come all over you and the whole world.” There was a pause, a bare second of surprise and then Dean smiled. It was a bright, uncomplicated smile that showed the whole of him, the sense of humor, yes, but also the sweetness he always hid under sarcasm and anger. What, Sam thought and not for the first time, would Dean have been like if they’d had a normal childhood? Would he be bored by a normal life or happy and content, twenty-four seven?

Sam’s smile must have fractured because Dean whispered, “What is it?”

He shook his head—there was no point wondering. Dean was the way he was and that wasn’t because of Mom or Bobby or even Dad. _Sam, _just by being the baby that had needed care and watching, had made Dean the way he was. _‘But you and me know how much we need each other and that’s never gonna leave us alone.’ _His own words that now seemed especially cruel, brutally accurate.

“Sammy, what is it?”

“Nothing,” Sam said, his throat tight. So, yeah, he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to confess but he could do this one thing… “We’re gonna need the lube in that basket.” He ran his hands down Dean’s back and cupped his ass. “And since this is your party, I’m staying right here.”

Dean hesitated, clearly wanting to push the subject. But then he shrugged and said, “Yeah, about that…” He brushed his lips against Sam’s chest and then slid off and over to the side of the bed. He fished around, muttered something under his breath, finally resurfacing with a small box. He held it up; it was a small box of lubricant.

Sam tipped his head. “You were pretty confident.”

Dean scooted back to Sam’s side. “I wasn’t. I got it when I went to the store today.” Propped on his elbow, he frowned as he opened the box. “I figured fifty-fifty.”

“Fifty-fifty I’d tell you to go to hell when we got here?”

“Actually it was more like seventy-thirty.”

Making that admission had been tough for Dean—Sam could see it. He took box and removed the tube. “And here I thought you knew me so well.”

Dean looked up. And then his expression evened out; he leaned over.

Sam met Dean with parted lips, welcoming him in, welcoming him home.

Dean made a sound, low-pitched with hunger, and angled his leg between Sam’s.

They exchanged off-target, messy kisses that only grew more messy, more urgent when Sam reached down and brushed the back of his fingers against Dean’s dick.

“Sam…” Dean arched.

Sam answered by flipping the cap off the lube with his thumb and—

And shit, it was sealed.

“What’s wrong?”

“This stupid tube is…” Reaching awkwardly around Dean, Sam unscrewed the cap and yeah, there was a tiny aluminum shield over opening. A tiny aluminum shield that had no tab, no way to remove it.

“Give it here,” Dean said.

Sam yanked it out of Dean’s reach and tried again, running his finger along the edge, looking for purchase.

“Sam…”

“Just give me a minute, all right? I can…” But he couldn’t. Gently, he shoved Dean off and then sat up, head bent. “Fuck it,” he muttered. He tried his thumbnail; the top was too small. “Do we have any scissors?”

“Will you just—” Dean made another grab.

Again, Sam pulled it out of reach but he wasn’t fast enough. Dean grabbed his wrist and they struggled.

It was probably the combined pressure of both fists that did the trick. Without warning the tube opened at the wrong end. White slick poured out, streaking Dean’s wrist and Sam’s arm.

They took one look at the other and began to laugh.

His arm and chest slippery with lube, Sam fell back and Dean came with him. “Dude,” Sam complained around a breathless laugh. “You’re greasy and you weigh a ton.”

Dean rubbed Sam’s arm, coating the back of his hand as well as his fingers. “Get used to it. I’m gonna be a lot heavier in a minute.”

“You’re getting that stuff everywhere. The sheets are gonna be a mess.”

“Bitch, bitch, bi—” Dean situated himself and then Sam, hooking his hand under Sam’s knee. “They knew what they were getting into when they gave us that stuff in the basket,” he said, adding under his breath, “You and your long legs.”

“You love my long legs,” Sam answered happily as he let Dean push and pose him, as he sank under a wave of overwhelming passivity.

“Yeah, I guess I do.”

“But you’re gonna be the one paying for these ruined sheets.”

“Fuck the sheets, Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes halfway and smiled. “Is that my cue to say I’d rather you fuck me?”

Dean snorted and slid his hand down Sam’s belly. He stroked Sam’s dick.

“Jesus,” Sam said as he sucked in his stomach and rocked his hips.

Dean paused. He smiled, an odd, lopsided smile. “I mean it,” he said, like he was coming into a conversation sideways. “Look at you. How could I ever—” He swallowed and then leaned over and kissed the inside of Sam’s knee. “Sammy.”

Sam’s hand was greasy but he brushed his thumb over the rim of Dean’s ear and then his lower lip. “I love you, too.”

Dean nipped Sam’s thumb. “You better.”

Sam rocked again. “And you better get back to it.”

Dean blinked and then laughed. “Yes, sir.” He ran his fingers down Sam’s dick and then back up again. “You like that?”

Sam raised his arms over his head and dropped them on the pillow. “What’s not to like?” Eyes still half closed, he felt more than saw when Dean inched down and… He sighed and raised his hips again.

Dean took his time, using one finger and then two, ignoring Sam when he began to push back, when he whispered, _“It’s okay, it’s all right…” _

“You ready?”

Wordlessly, Sam got a pillow and shoved it under his ass.

Dean said something too low to hear and then he was there, between Sam’s legs, almost scowling as he found his way.

Sam arched up._ “Uh…”_

“Too much?” Dean asked in a tight, strained voice.

Sam curled a leg around Dean’s thigh. He drew Dean in and yeah it hurt and his breath was trapped in his chest but…“No, it’s fine. You’re good. I’m good.”

Dean pushed and then again, “Good,” he said, still in that same tight voice. “‘Cause I can’t—”

Sam wrapped his other leg around Dean’s hips. “Don’t. Just…” He arched.

Dean groaned and got to work.

***

Sam was taking up too much room. He knew it, his arms and legs all over the place. But he couldn’t move, not yet, because his arms felt like lead and his legs had turned to stone and that was— “Amazing,” he whispered, his eyes still closed.

Draped over him, heavy and lax, Dean grunted.

Sam smiled and told his arm to move. It did, flopping onto Dean’s back. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Dean said into the curve of Sam’s chest. “I’m dead. Stop talking.”

For once the idea of Dean dying didn’t do anything but make Sam smile. He dragged his eyes open and grinned at the ceiling. “Me, too.”

Dean pushed up. The side of his face was flushed red and his lower lip was bleeding. “Yeah?”

Sam wiped away the blood. “Yeah.”

“Sorry about the…” Dean jerked his head towards the pillow.

Towards the end, each racing for the combined finish line, Dean had strained up, grabbing Sam’s hair instead of the pillow. It hadn’t hurt then, it didn’t hurt now. “It’s fine. Sorry about your back.”

“It’s okay.”

“I think I’m gonna pass out for a while.”

Dean smiled, then fell back down, this time landing square on Sam’s chest. “Wake me if and when you revive.”

“Will do,” he said, or thought he said because just like that, the room darkened and he was out.

***

“Sam.”

“_Sam.”_

Sam had his hand under the pillow to search for his gun even as he bolted upright. “What is it?” He couldn’t find his gun. “Is it a monster? What?”

“Jesus. Remind me to never wake you up like that again.”

Sam scrubbed his hair out of his face and then looked around. It was still dark, they weren’t at home and there were no monsters. Just the rental in Minnesota and Dean, still naked, kneeling on the bed. “What the hell, man.” Sam fell back as relief weakened his limbs.

“I was trying to be sexy.”

Sam frowned in disbelief at Dean’s tone of wounded hurt. And then he rolled his eyes and turned on his side. The fire was out but the room was warm. “You were, you were very sexy, you sexy thing.”

“Asshole,” Dean muttered. He tugged on the sheet. “Don’t go back to sleep; I wanna show you something.”

Any urge to sleep was gone but he was gonna make Dean work for it as payment for the scare so Sam dragged the sheet up and closed his eyes. “Can’t you just tell me?”

Dean pulled again, this time yanking the sheet off Sam. “No, I gotta show you.”

Sam grumbled and then sat up again. He looked around. “What is it?”

Dean scooted off the bed and then went around to the other side. “It’s outside.”

“Outside?” Sam complained, this time honestly because _outside? _“It’s cold outside.”

“I know, but you gotta see this.” Dean held out his hand.

Sam’s breath stilled, the moment stilled, and he forgot everything but Dean, standing there before him. The moon had made an appearance, not quite full, but full enough and the light shone through the windows, casting white, distorted rectangles across the floor and the bed. And Dean.

Back at Stanford, eager to dive into his new life, Sam had taken the required courses plus two electives, one of which was art history. He’d been excited about it until he’d found Professor Bell’s idea of art history was endless slideshows and simple memorization of dates and names. There had been, however, one section on the importance of Greek and Roman culture that had caught Sam’s interest.

The class had started the same as usual with Professor Bell droning on about this sculpture and that artist. But then Bell had clicked on a slide and an image bloomed, that of a male statue.

Nude, clean-shaven, the figure’s head was turned to one side, his hand stretched out as if reaching for a scroll or a spear. Someone in the class made a joke because the statue’s nose was missing. Sam had heard the laughter as if through a tunnel, puzzled by the sense of familiar attraction that had been a visceral blow to his chest.

And here it was again, that _‘ah-ha’ _moment because Dean was standing in the glancing light that accentuated his broad shoulders and slim waist, one foot out, his weight on one hip.

_‘Even then,’ _Sam thought with a dull ache that shouldn’t have been a shock but was. Even then, his compass had pointed towards Dean though he hadn’t realized it. _Especially_ when he hadn’t realized it.

Sam swallowed and then reached up.

Dean drew Sam across the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sam managed as he stepped close and wrapped his arms around Dean, shivering because Dean’s body was cool, almost cold. “What did you want to show me?”

Dean squeezed Sam, and then backed up, still holding Sam’s hand. “Like I said, it’s out there.”

Sam let Dean guide him across the room and through the door. “I thought the deck had a roof.”

Dean tapped the control panel by the door. “It retracts,” he said proudly, as if he’d designed it, built it. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

“I suppose you want to get one for the bunker,” Sam muttered, shifting his weight because, like below, the deck was free of snow but it was cold. Above, the sky had completely cleared of clouds—the moon was bright but didn’t mask the heavy field of stars.

Dean guided Sam around a couple lounge chairs and over to a fire pit. Beside the firepot was a nest of blankets, a comforter, the welcome basket and two champagne flutes. “I can’t figure out how to turn the fire on but we’re not gonna need it.”

“We’re not staying out here,” Sam said, pulling free and backing up. “Public indecency, remember?” He wrapped his arms around his chest and craned his neck. He couldn’t see any houses.

Dean had crouched by the blankets and was straightening them out. “They can’t see anything. I checked it out.”

“You did not.” He was shaking now, his breath coming white. In the basket like it belonged there was the busted tube of lubricant.

Dean paused, and then shrugged. “Okay, I didn’t but if we can’t see them, they can’t see us, right?” He crawled between the blankets and then patted the comforter. “C’mon—it’s warm.”

Sam didn’t need anymore convincing—he was too cold. He crouched and then crawled in next to Dean.

“Shit,” Dean cursed as Sam huddled close.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Sam said.

“That’s right,” Dean groused again, “call _me_ a baby because you’re two degrees warm. I—”

“Baby,” Sam interrupted, pressing his cold nose against Dean’s chest. “Baby, baby, baby.” By the third ‘baby,’ his voice had dropped and he said it once more, this time in a whisper as he licked Dean’s tattoo, “Baby.”

“Stop it,” Dean said.

They never used endearments. Back in the day, he’d called Jess ‘sweetheart,’ and she in turn had called him ‘sweetie.’ But Dean had never let anything slip by except the diminutive of Sam’s name, used in various tones and inflections and affections. And Dean was, well, _Dean._

But now the idea suited Sam’s mood, brought on by the subtle, cataclysmic shift in their relationship, encouraged by the freedom of relative solitude. “Honey,” he tested as he moved down to tongue Dean’s nipple. “Babe.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat and he gripped Sam’s hair. “Stop,” he said again.

Sam raised his head. Dean’s chin was tipped to the stars and his expression… Sam didn’t want to ever hurt Dean but if they were going to do this, _be _this, they couldn’t be afraid of simple words, right? And so he tried it again, this time pouring all his confused love and fractured tenderness into the single word: “Babe.”

Dean shuddered and then slipped his legs apart, but instead of telling Sam to stop, he muttered, “Say it again.”

A wash of cold fire streaked up Sam’s back. He mounted Dean and kneed Dean’s legs apart even more. “Babe, I want to fuck you until you can’t see straight.”

Dean swallowed.

“Babe, I want to make you come so hard you pass out.”

Dean closed his eyes.

“I wanna hear the words,” Sam said, shifting, rubbing his dick against Dean’s, the heady power making the world tilt and spin like it had that first night. “Say them for me.”

“Fuck me, Sammy.”

_‘Only you,’ _Sam thought as he operated by touch, as he found the lube and slicked up his fingers. _‘Only you can do this to me. Only I can do this to you.’ _

As if he’d heard, Dean nodded and took Sam’s hand, pushing it down between his legs.

It would have been easier without Dean’s help but it was also sexy, getting Dean ready, letting Dean control the rhythm, helped along by Dean’s gasps and stuttered breath.

And, it would have also been nice to have the tables turned so he could lie on his back, facing the sky because that was supposed to be the height of romance and he wanted to see the stars as he lost it. But Dean was greedy and ready, urging Sam to _‘come on the fuck, okay?’ _and so Sam made do. With Dean’s legs locked around his hips and Dean’s hands clamped around his forearms, Sam rocked and thrust, chasing the beat, guided by Dean’s dazed eyes and ragged gulps.

Still, right before he came, jaw clenched and aching, Sam was certain he saw the stars reflected in Dean’s glassy gaze and he thought once more, ‘_But you and me know…’ _and this time the words were a blessing, not a curse.

***

They didn’t stay outside. Limbs again weak, Sam urged a groggy Dean to his feet. They stumbled across the terrace and then into bed. Sam thought he should get back up to at least close the door but Dean pulled the covers up and then turned over. Sam shrugged metaphorically, wrapped his arms around Dean and closed his eyes.

***

When he woke the next time, Sam was alone. The sun was up and there was a cup of coffee on the table next to the bed. He touched the cup—still hot—and then got out of bed.

Curious to know where Dean had got to, Sam dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and then padded downstairs with the coffee.

The grocery bags were on the kitchen counter but Dean wasn’t in the kitchen or living room—he was on the deck, sitting on a lounge chair with his own cup of coffee. Hoping it wasn’t too cold, Sam went outside. “Hey,” he said. It wasn’t too cold; the deck was pleasantly warm.

Dean waved without turning around.

Sam went to stand by Dean’s side. Dark sunglasses on, Dean was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. His shirt was open and he was barefoot. “How’d you sleep?”

Dean raised his thumb in answer. “You?”

Sam took a sip of coffee and gazed out at the lake. “Fine.” The edges of the lake were still bound by anchor ice and he wondered how long it would hold out. It was almost March. Pretty soon all the snow would melt and the mosquitoes and bugs would appear. He’d been to this area of Minnesota more than a few times in the summer; he hadn’t enjoyed it.

“Hey.”

Sam turned.

Dean spread his legs and patted the space between them.

Ignoring the urge to scan the area to see if anyone was watching, Sam sat down between Dean’s legs. “Can this thing hold us?”

“It’s built for elephants, Sammy. It’ll hold.”

Sam leaned over and placed his coffee on the deck and then relaxed back, folding into Dean. “Hm,” he murmured. “Feels good.”

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam. “Yep.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“Was waiting on you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s hot,” Sam said after a moment.

“It is.”

“Do you have sunscreen on?”

“Nope.”

“You shouldn’t stay out too long, then.” ‘_The Mark probably won’t protect you against skin cancer,’ _he wanted to say but didn’t.

Dean slipped his hand under Sam’s t-shirt and began to stroke his belly. “I’ll go in soon. Make you some pancakes.”

“Sounds good,” Sam answered. He closed his eyes and let Dean’s touch and the sun’s heat lull him to a kind of waking stupor. Nearby a songbird serenaded them, a lilting up and down trill that only increased his feeling of completeness. “Do you remember that time in Grand Junction? When you and Dad and Bobby went out to meet that rancher about that pack of coyotes that turned out to be a werewolf?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

Sam grinned. “You got so sunburned. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Even your scalp. You were picking at it for weeks. It was disgusting.”

“If it’s so disgusting why’re you bringing it up?”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered. “It’s just sort of funny. Bobby told me he tried to get you to wear his hat but you didn’t want to. He said it was because you were too busy making eyes at the rancher’s daughter and didn’t want to look stupid wearing his old Oilers cap. It’s funny.”

“You’re so weird.”

“You love it.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a few seconds. And then he laughed under his breath and brushed Sam’s hair off the back of his neck and kissed him. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Sam smiled into the sun. “Dean Winchester kissing a man in broad daylight. Will wonders never cease.”

“Keep that up and I’m eating all the pancakes.”

Sam snorted softly and covered Dean’s hand with his own, pressing both into his stomach, smiling at the combined pressure, at the combined warmth.

____________________________

The rest of their ‘few days’ passed quickly. As much he’d ended up enjoying the surprise, Sam wasn’t sorry when Dean packed up the stuff from the basket as well as the guest shampoos and conditioners. There’d been another sea change, one he hoped would be permanent, not temporary, but it was time to go back to real life

Still, as soon as he got in the car and shut the door, all the problems he’d been keeping at arm’s length came rushing back: Magnus’s spell, the Mark, the First Blade and that bastard, Crowley.

Dean, too felt the weight because he just sat there, fiddling with the car key, pushing it into the ignition and then pulling it back out. “You’re thinking of James and the Mark, aren’t you?” he finally said.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Dean sighed, jamming the key into the ignition. “It was fun while it lasted.”

Before, Sam had no rights, no way past the barrier that Dean had built. Now, he did. He reached over and curled his fingers around Dean’s. “It’s not over.”

For once Dean didn’t pull away. He turned to meet Sam’s gaze and then squeezed Sam’s hand in return. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

“We’ll fix the Mark. There’s got to be a way and we’ll find it.”

“Okay.”

“And in the meantime we’ll keep doing what we do, right?”

Dean smiled, barely. “Yeah, okay.”

Sam shook Dean’s hand. “Seriously. We’ll find a way. You just need to have a little faith.”

“In you?”

This time it was Sam that squeezed, gripping Dean’s hand so hard it had to hurt. “No, in you, in yourself. You’re the strongest person I know, Dean; you can hold on a little longer.”

Dean glanced down at their hands and then ran his thumb over Sam’s knuckles. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

They leaned over at the same time, kissed at the same time, and then drew apart.

***

They’d just crossed into Kansas, ten miles from home, when the evening news came on. It was mostly political stuff and Dean was reaching out to switch the channel when the DJ announced:_ ‘In national news, Livingston, Texas officials have released an alert for a missing death-row inmate. Thomas Tolliver, the serial killer who murdered eight women, disappeared from his cell last night. The Polunsky Unit officials stress that Tolliver is extremely dangerous and should not be approached if encountered. In other news…’_

Sam turned off the radio and said, “‘Disappeared?”

“Maybe Crowley,” Dean agreed. “Or some other demon douchebag.”

“They would have already called the Feebs.”

Dean nodded. “So we wait a day or so and…” He frowned. “Fish and Game isn’t gonna cut it.”

“Federal Marshals?”

“We don’t have the badges anymore, remember?”

“What about Inspectors General?” Sam said. “They’d have the authority.”

“Yeah, that’ll work.” Dean tapped the steering wheel. “When we get home, I’ll pack our Fed threads and you make the IDs. Do we need any ink for the printer?”

“No. I got some a few weeks ago.”

“Okay, you get the IDs and make sure we have enough holy water and demon-killing knives.”

“Sounds good.”

“Eight women,” Dean muttered. “Bastard better run.”

Sam touched Dean’s thigh. “We’ll get him.”

Dean laced his fingers through Sam’s and squeezed.

*** *** ***

Now.

Later, Dean would look back and examine the days and weeks preceding the events that changed his life. Only then would he recognize the patterns hidden in the fractures carved by grief, stress, and their general fucked up life. He’d think to himself, _‘It was right there the whole time’ _and _‘I should have done something,’_ and, _‘Why didn’t I?’_

But that was later, after the world had shifted on its axis and the pieces of himself—his soul, his mind, hell, even his body—had scattered and reformed. After he’d discovered that he wanted more from life than the blackened world his parents had handed him, no questions asked.

And yeah, no use crying about it all, but still…

Still, he had wanted that more, wanted that different. He’d even confessed it to that priest, the one that worked with the hot nun: ‘_…there’s things, there’s people, feelings that I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time…’_

But that wasn’t right, either, because he _had _had it. For a sweet, brief time he’d had his heart’s desire and he gazed down at Sam, kneeling at his feet. Sam’s jaw and cheek were bruised and his eyes were red-rimmed. The old, creased photos were on the sticky cantina floor where Sam had carefully placed them.

Even now at the end of all things, Sam was what he wanted. Sam was the different experience, the first time, the only time.

But it didn’t really matter. There was no other way. Charlie, Kevin, Rudy… All the people he’d let down, all the people that _Sam _had let down deserved so much better and it looked like Metatron had been right—it was always gonna end this way.

So, Dean swallowed and pushed away the past and present, pushed away the things he couldn’t have, silently asking Sam’s forgiveness. And then he tightened his grip on Death’s scythe, took a breath, and swung.

And then…

…and then time slowed to a heartbeat crawl. All his senses—his whole _being—_jerked to a stop and reality became crystal clear. He heard the hum of the gas in the bar’s neon signs, he heard his own measured breath and the creak of the old wooden floor under his boots. He smelled the faint sour odor of the Mexican food he’d served Death. He even _felt _his own tense muscles, the tightness in his back, arms, ass, and calves. But mostly he saw Sam.

He saw the shape of Sam’s face and body, the way his hair curled at his chin, as long as always. Even kneeling, Sam was so tall and so lanky. So beautiful.

This was the man he’d lived for. This was the man he’d died for, and he was thinking that very thing, _‘This is the man…’ _when something else shifted, this time within his soul, and he remembered, ‘_You and me know how much we need each other…”’_

_You and me,_ the two that had become one so long ago he no longer felt like he was an individual. He was an _us, _a _them. _And no, God damnit, Death was wrong—he _wasn’t _a stain on anyone’s memory and that was all because of Sam. Sam had kept him on the straight and narrow. Sam was there, _always_, to help him when he stumbled, to catch him when he fell.

_You and me._

The words were like magic, like a charm, resetting the trajectory both of Dean’s life and his aim. Without even thinking, he didn’t drop his arms but kept going, spinning around to spike Death right where it counted.

Death blinked and looked down. And then vanished.

Holy _fuck._

“Dean?”

In a daze, he turned. Sam was still on his knees, his eyes wide with shock. Dean reached down. “You okay?” he asked once Sam was on his feet.

Sam nodded. “I’ll live.” He cracked a smile. “You?”

“Fantastic.” Dean shook his head. “I think I just killed Death.”

“Yeah.”

“You think he’s gonna be pissed?”

“Probably. We should get out of here before he comes back.”

Dean nodded. “I gotta clean this shit up before the owner comes back.” Still in that weird state of calm, he went to the stage and began to pack up the stuff he’d used for the spell.

“Where’s Juan?”

“Juan isn’t a Juan.” Spray paint, matches, the last of the wormwood… “Her name is Roberta and she’s visiting her sister in Greeley.”

“Do you need any help?”

Dean was about to answer, _“No, I got it,’ _when a noise, more like a heavy pressure in his ears made him pause and look up. “That sound right to you?”

Before Sam could answer, a bolt of light crashed through the bar’s roof and hit Dean.

He was thrown back against the stage as pain and light engulfed him, both sheltering a tearing so deep it seemed to come from inside his very core. His arm was on fire—no, check that—Cain’s _mark _was on fire, glowing and it hurt so fucking—

The light and pain coalesced, became one again, and then returned to the sky, traveling just as fast as it had come.

In the vacuum filled by silence, Dean peered at his arm. Holy fuck all over again because the mark was completely gone.

“Dean?”

He looked up.

Sam swallowed. “I guess that did it.”

“I guess it did.”

“We better go.”

“Yeah, okay.” Moving like an old man, Dean put on his jacket, got his bag, and followed Sam to the door. But as he was passing into the shadows of the entryway, reality crashed into him again, sending a chill over his whole body. “Sammy?” he croaked as he dropped the bag.

Sam stopped and turned.

In two long strides Dean had Sam up against the wall covered in posters for concerts and local events. He shoved close, burying his face in Sam’s neck. So warm and solid. Sam was always so warm and— “Jesus, Sammy. I almost killed you,” he mumbled.

Sam sighed, a long shaky breath. And then he wrapped his long arms around Dean’s back. “No.”

“I did,” Dean insisted.

“No,” Sam said again, his voice firm, resolute.

Dean loosened his hold, now resting against Sam. He should have known and what had he just been assuring himself? When push came to shove, he always chose Sam. He always had. He always would.

“We should go.”

“Why bother?” He wanted to stay here forever, on the downbeat of another stupid decision, listening to the comfort of Sam’s heartbeat, the small sounds he made when he swallowed and breathed. “I don’t think even the bunker will hide us from Death.”

“Dean.”

He kissed the side of Sam’s neck. He knew that tone. Sam was still worried, still in shock. “Yeah, okay.” He drew back. He felt weird and wobbly, like that night after he and Sam had first done it. Except then, shame had been eating him alive. Now…?

Dean reached up and straightened Sam’s collar, then stepped back and picked up his bag. Feeling better than he had in a long, long while, he headed outside, Sam only a step behind.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> First, this story hasn't been edited by anyone other than myself. And since I've just started posting again after many months inability to write, I've found it hard to catch all the little typos, etc. In other words, reader beware as there might be a few mistakes. Second, I watched season 1-10 of Supernatural straight through and was inundated by all the 'why did he need to leave?/will he return?' drama. When you're watching a show real-time, that kind of plot device isn't quite as heavy-handed. I guess this is my way of acknowledging it *as* a plot device and offering up an explanation. Or something like that.


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